-^rv   # 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


\ 


' 


THE  TELL-TALE: 


OR, 


HOME   SECRETS 


TOLD    BY    OLD    TRAVELLERS. 


H.   TRUSTA, 

AUTHOR  OP   "SUNNY-SIDE,"   "  PEEP  AT  NUMBER  FIVE," 
"  KITTY   BROWN,"   ETC.  ETC.  ETC. 


BOSTON: 
PHILLIPS,  SAMPSON  AND   COMPANY. 

1853. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1852,  by 

AUSTIN   PHELPS, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


HOBART    *    BOBBINS, 
Ntw  England  Type  *  Stcrrotjpe  Founder}-, 
*         BOSTON. 


PS 


NOTE. 

THE  following  Sketches  were  nearly  all  of  them  origi 
nally  written  for  the  Boston  Traveller,  in  which  they  have 
appeared,  at  intervals,  during  the  last  two  or  three  years. 

"  Old  Travellers,"  it  is  presumed,  may  claim  a  share 
of  the  privilege  of  old  sailors  in  the  matter  of  twice-told 
tales  ;  but  the  secret  of  the  repetition  of  these  must  be 
found  in  the  interest  awakened  by  them  among  the  per 
sonal  friends  of  the  author. 


The  author  of  this  little  volume  had  thus  given  her  sal 
utation  to  its  readers,  and  it  was  just  about  to  be  placed 
in  their  hands,  when  she  was  called  into  another  world. 
In  her  last  hours  she  expressed  a  desire  that  its  publica 
tion  should  not  be  prevented  by  her  departure.  Her 
friends,  in  obeying  her  wishes,  experience  a  mournful 
pleasure,  which  is  enhanced  by  the  assurance  that  those 
at  whose  suggestion  the  re-publication  of  these  sketches 
was  designed  will  now  feel  a  new  interest  in  them,  as  a 
specimen  of  the  recreations  which  have  occupied  her 
hours  of  leisure  for  many  years. 


5 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 
WHAT   SENT   ON*   HUSBAND   TO    CALIFORNIA  ....       7 

i 
THE   FIRST   CROSS   WORD 35 

THE  OLD  LEATHER  PORTFOLIO ;  OR,  A  HOUSE-CLEANING    47 

THE    M  AY-QUEEN  5 85 

THE   HUSBAND   OF    A    BLUE 96 

THE    WIFE   OF   A  STUDENT 135 

OLD    WITCH   MOLL,   AND    HER    BROWN    PITCHER  .    .    169 

THE   GLORIOUS   FOURTH   IN    BOSTON 193 

FIRST   TRIALS  OF  A  YOUNG   PHYSICIAN 230 


WHAT   SENT  ONE   HUSBAND  TO 
CALIFORNIA. 

Mr.  WARREN  left  his  counting-room  at  the  hour 
of  one,  to  go  home  to  dinner.  He  sauntered  leisurely 
along,  for  he  knew  by  long  experience  that  din 
ner  never  waited  for  him.  As  he  turned  the  last 
corner,  he  ran  into  the  arms  of  a  man  who  was  ad 
vancing  at  a  rapid  pace.  Each  stopping  to  adjust  a 
hat,  after  such  a  collision,  instantly  recognized  the 
other  as  an  old  acquaintance. 

"  Why,  Harry,  is  it  you  ?  " 

"  Ton  my  word,  Charley !  where  did  you  drop 
down  from  ? " 

"  From  the  clouds,  as  I  always  do,"  said  Charles 
Morton.  "  You,  Warren,  are  creeping  along  as 
usual.  It's  an  age  since  I  met  you.  How  goes 
the  world  with  you  ?  " 

"After  a  fashion,"  said  Warren;  "sometimes 
well  and  sometimes  ill.  I  am  quite  a  family  man 
now,  you  know,  —  wife  and  four  children." 

"  Ah,  indeed  !    No,  I  did  not  know  that;  I  have 


8  WHAT   SENT   ONE   HUSBAND 

quite  lost  track  of  you,  since  we  were  in  Virginia 
together." 

"  Come,  it  is  just  our  dinner  hour,"  said  Mr.  War 
ren  ;  "  come  home  with  me,  and  let  us  have  a  talk 
about  old  times." 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  said  Morton  ;  "  I  want  to 
see  the  wife,  and  children,  too.  Has  the  wife  the 
laughing  black  eyes  and  silken  ringlets  you  married 
in  imagination  long  ago,  Harry  ?  " 

"  Not  exactly,"  said  Warren,  without  returning 
very  heartily  his  friend's  smile.  "  My  wife  was 
pretty,  once,  though ;  she  was  very  pretty  when  I 
married  her,  but  she  is  a  feeble  woman ;  she  has 
seen  a  great  deal  of  illness  since  then,  and  it  has 
changed  her  somewhat." 

By  this  time  Mr.  Warren  reached  his  own  door, 
and,  with  some  secret  misgivings,  turned  the  key,  and 
invited  his  friend  into  his  small,  but  comfortably  fur 
nished  house.  Glad  he  was,  indeed,  to  meet  him ; 
but,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  he  would  have  been 
quite  as  well  pleased  if  it  had  been  after  dinner.  He 
would  have  felt  easier  could  he  have  prepared  the 
lady  of  the  house  to  receive  his  guest.  For  his  part, 
he  would  have  killed  the  fatted  calf,  with  great 
rejoicing ;  but  to  set  wife,  children,  house  and  table, 
in  a  hospitable  tune,  required  more  time  than  he 
could  now  command. 

"  Sit  down,"  said  he,  ushering  Morton  into  the 


TO     CALIFORNIA.  9 

best  parlor.  "  Take  the  rocking-chair,  Charley ;  you 
have  not  forgotten  your  old  tricks,  of  always  claim 
ing  the  rocking-chair,  have  you  ?  Stop,  —  a  little 
dust  on  it."  Out  came  his  pocket-handkerchief,  and 
wiped  off,  not  a  little,  but  a  great  deal  of  dust. 
"  Never  mind,"  said  he  ;  "  make  yourself  quite  at 
home,  while  I  go  and  hunt  up  the  folks,  will 
you  ?  " 

Mr.  "Warren  thought  it  prudent  to  close  the  parlor 
doors  after  him,  that  all  unnecessary  communication 
with  the  rest  of  the  house  might  be  cut  off.  His 
first  visit  was  to  the  kitchen,  to  ascertain  which  way 
the  wind  blew  there.  If  Betty,  the  old  family  ser 
vant  and  maid-of-all-work,  was  in  good  humor,  he 
had  little  to  fear.  No  one  could  better  meet  an 
exigency,  when  she  had  a  mind  to  the  work.  He 
opened  the  door  gently.  "  Well,  Betty,"  said  he,  in 
a  conciliatory  tone,  "  what  have  you  got  nice  for  us 
to-day  ? " 

She  seemed  to  understand,  as  if  by  instinct,  her 
importance,  and  was  just  cross  enough  to  make  a  bad 
use  of  it. 

"  Got !  why  the  veal-steaks,  to  be  sure,  you  sent 
home  ;  I  don't  see'what  else  we  could  have." 

"  Have  you  anything  for  dessert  ?  "  was  asked,  in 
the  same  gentle  tone. 

"  I  s'pose  there  is  a  pie  somewhere." 

"  Well,  Betty,  I  wish  you  would  get  up  a  dish  of 


10  WHAT   SENT   ONE   HUSBAND 

ham  and  eggs,  if  you  can.  We  are  to  have  a  gen 
tleman  to  dine  with  us,  and  the  dinner  Is  rather 
small." 

Betty  looked  like  a  thunder-cloud.  "  You  '11  have 
to  want  a  good  while,  I  guess,  then ;  the  fire  is  all 
out." 

"  Put  on  some  charcoal,"  said  Mr.  Warren  ;  "  here, 
I  '11  get  it,  while  you  cut  the  ham.  Now,  do  give  us 
one  of  your  nice  dishes,  Betty ;  nobody  can  cook 
ham  and  eggs  quite  like  you,  when  you  have  a  mind 
to.  Where  is  Mrs.  Warren  ?  " 

"  In  her  chamber,  I  s'pose,"  said  Betty,  sulkily, 
adding,  in  an  under  tone,  not  exactly  intended  to 
reach  her  master's  ear,  —  "  where  she  always  is." 

He  did  hear  it,  however,  and  with  a  foreboding 
heart  he  went  to  his  wife's  chamber. 

The  room  was  partially  darkened,  and  on  the  bed, 
in  loose  sick  gown,  with  dishevelled  hair,  lay  Mrs. 
Warren.  Her  hand  rested  on  a  bottle  of  camphor, 
and  on  the  stand  at  her  side  was  an  ominous  bowl  of 
water,  with  wet  cloths  in  it. 

"  Juliette,  my  love,  are  you  ill  ?  " 

"  111  ?  what  a  question  to  ask  !  I  told  you  half  a 
dozen  times,  this  morning,  I  had  one  of  my  head 
aches  ;  that 's  just  all  you  mind  about  me !  " 

"  I  am  sorry,  but  I  really  thought,  Juliette,  it 
•would  pass  off.  Shall  not  you  feel  able  to  come 
down  to  dinner  ?  " 


TO    CALIFORNIA.  11 

"  No,  I  am  sure  I  never  shall  want  anything  to  eat 
again  ;  it  seems  as  if  these  head-aches  would  kill  me." 

"  Where  are  the  children  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  I  am  sure  ;  I  can't  look  after  them 
when  I  am  sick  !  If  Betty  can't  do  that,  she  had 
better  not  try  to  do  anything." 

"  I  wish  you  would  make  an  effort,  Juliette,  and 
come  down  to  dinner ;  I  have  an  old  friend  to  dine 
with  us,  —  Charles  Morton,  of  whom  you  have  so 
often  heard  me  speak.  He  has  come  on  purpose  to 
see  my  wife  and  children." 

"  Dear  me  !  how  could  you  bring  company  home 
to-day,  when  you  knew  I  was  sick  ?  I  don't  believe  I 
could  hold  my  head  up,  if  I  were  to  try  !  "  and,  clos 
ing  her  eyes,  she  pressed  both  hands  on  her  temples. 

Mr.  Warren  said  no  more ;  he  would  not  urge  the 
matter.  He  made  up  his  mind  to  dine  without  her ; 
and,  with  a  sigh,  he  slowly  returned  to  the  parlor. 
Had  he  spoken  out  his  honest  feelings,  he  would  have 
said,  "  What  a  misfortune  it  is  for  a  young  man  to 
have  an  ailing  wife  !  My  servants  rule,  my  children 
are  neglected,  my  house  is  in  disorder,  my  wife  does 
not  like  it  because  I  do  not  make  a  fuss  over  her  all 
the  time,  and  something  is  the  matter  continually ; 
if  it  is  not  one  thing,  it  is  another,  —  and  I  am  weary 
of  it !  " 

He  found  his  friend  still  in  the  arm-chair,  busily 
reading  a  scrap-book  which  was  on  the  table.  Fun 


12  WHAT    SENT   ONE   HUSBAND 

danced  in  his  eyes  and  twitched  at  the  corners  of  his 
mouth;  and  as  soon  as  he  caught  sight  of  Warren,  he 
burst  into  a  merry  peal  of  laughter.  Warren  could  not 
resist  it,  and  he  laughed  full  five  minutes  before  he 
knew  what  the  joke  was.  It  was  only  something  in 
the  scrap-book  which  brought  to  remembrance  an  old 
scrape  they  had  together,  —  but  the  laugh  worked 
like  a  charm  with  him.  His  family  troubles  seemed 
to  vanish  before  it,  like  mists  in  the  morning.  A 
more  manly  courage  was  aroused  in  him ;  he  was  a 
better  and  a  stronger  man. 

"  By  George,  Charley,"  said  he,  something  like 
the  Harry  Warren  of  other  days,  "it  does  one  good 
to  hear  your  old  horse-laugh  again  !  "  An  animated 
conversation  ensued,  and  it  was  some  time  before  Mr. 
Warren  remembered  that  they  had  not  yet  dined. 

"  We  are  not  going  to  starve  you  out,  Charley," 
said  he,  "but  my  wife  is  not  able  to  be  about  to-day, 
and  our  cook,  I  see,  is  taking  her  own  time.  Excuse 
me  a  moment,  and  I  will  go  and  stir  her  up,  by  way 
of  remembrance." 

Much  to  his  delight,  the  bell  rang.  He  was 
saved  the  trial  of  bearding  the  lion  twice  in  his  den. 
As  he  was  going  to  the  dining-room  with  his  friend, 
a  troop  of  ill-dressed  and  noisy  children  pushed  by 
them,  and  hurried  in  great  disorder  to  their  seats. 
Mr.  Morton  spoke  to  them,  but  they  hung  their 
heads.  He  was  somewhat  embarrassed.  He  felt 


TO    CALIFORNIA.  13 

that  he  ought  to  take  some  notice  of  them,  and  yet 
it  seemed  as  if  it  would  spare  his  friend's  feelings 
not  to  notice  them.  He  took  hold  of  the  wrong 
horn  of  the  dilemma. 

"  Which  of  them  looks  like  the  mother,  Harry  ?" 

"  The  boy  nearest  you,  I  think,"  was  the  short 
reply ;  then,  as  if  obliged  to  add,  by  way  of  apol 
ogy,  "  I  am  very  sorry  that  Mrs.  Warren  cannot 
come  down  to-day,  but  she  has  one  of  her  bad  head 
aches." 

"  She  is  a-coming,"  said  one  of  the  children ; 
"  she  says  she  s'poses  she  must." 

Morton  pretended  not  t®  hear  this  speech.  He 
saw  that  something  was  wrong  in  his  friend's  domes 
tic  life.  Had  he,  then,  married  unfortunately  ?  "I 
shall  be  sorry  for  him,  if  he  has,"  thought  Morton ; 
"  he  deserves  a  good  wife ;  a  better-hearted  fellow 
never  breathed." 

Warren's  sunshine  was  fast  vanishing,  though  his 
dinner,  it  is  but  justice  to  Betty  we  should  say,  was 
well  cooked ;  yet  his  table  needed  the  lady.  No 
clean  napkins  were  there ;  no  nice  salters  and  shin 
ing  spoons  graced  it;  no  order  and  elegance  of 
serving  made  it  attractive.  Betty  had  no  eye  for 
the  fancy-work.  But  the  food  was  good,  and  there 
was  an  abundance  of  it ;  and  the  gentlemen  would 
have  enjoyed  it,  if  the  children  had  not  been  so  trou 
blesome. 

2 


14  WHAT    SENT   ONE   HUSBAND 

When  dinner  was  about  half  over,  Mrs.  Warren 
made  her  appearance.  Walking  in  languidly,  she 
took  her  seat  at  the  head  of  the  table.  She  still 
wore  her  loose  gown,  over  which  she  had  thrown  a 
shawl.  Her  hair  was  still  uncombed.  Her  eyes 
were  dull  and  heavy  in  their  expression,  and  her 
eyebrows  were  elevated.  She  looked  as  if  she  felt 
miserable.  "  Ah,  Juliette,"  said  Mr.  Warren, 
slightly  coloring,  "  I  did  not  know  that  you  would 
feel  able  to  come  down.  Let  me  introduce  you  to 
my  old  friend,  Mr.  Morton." 

Mrs.  Warren  bowed. 

"  You  have  been  suffering  with  a  head-ache  to 
day,  my  friend  tells  me,"  said  Mr.  Morton. 

"  Yes,  I  suffer  nearly  all  the  time,"  was  the  re 
ply  ;  "  if  it  is  not  one  thing,  it  is  another.  I  am 
almost  discouraged." 

"  0,  no,  Juliette,  it  is  some  time  since  you  have 
had  a  bad  turn,"  said  her  husband. 

"  Only  last  week,"  was  her  short  reply.  "  Your 
memory  is  not  very  good  on  this  point.  I  believe 
you  think  I  can  help  being  sick." 

Mr.  Warren  tried  to  laugh  off  this  thrust ;  but 
there  was  n'o  heart  in  it.  All  sociality  vanished 
with  Mrs.  Warren's  presence,  and  all  peace,  too ; 
for  the  children  acted  .worse  than  ever.  Mr.  Mor 
ton  suffered  for  his  friend,  and  was  much  relieved 
when  they  were  again  by  themselves  in  the  parlor. 


TO    CALIFORNIA.  15 

He  could  have  forgiven  the  want  of  glossy  ringlets 
and  laughing  eyes,  but  he  could  not  forgive  the  want 
of  good  humor,  in  Harry  Warren's  wife.  He  felt  as 
if  his  friend  had  been  taken  in  ;  he  pitied  him  ;  and 
firmer  than  ever  was  his  determination  to  run  no 
such  hazards  himself. 

So  much  of  Mr.  Warren's  day  had  been  occupied 
with  his  friend,  that  it  was  quite  late  before  he  was 
able  to  leave  his  store.  He  went  home  weary  in 
body  and  mind.  How  much  he  needed  to  have 
things  comfortable  and  cheerful  around  him  there  ! 
But,  much  as  he  loved  his  family,  he  found  neither 
rest  nor  pleasure  at  home.  Work  for  them  he  would, 
like  a  dog,  from  morning  to  night ;  but,  when  the 
day's  toil  was  over,  there  were  no  home  attractions 
for  him.  This  night,  it  would  have  been  a  comfort 
to  him,  could  he  have  just  thrown  himself  down  on 
the  sofa  and  taken  his  book ;  but  he  knew  well 
enough  this  would  not  answer.  He  knew  that  his 
wife  had  been  watching  to  hear  his  steps,  and  would 
feel  hurt  if  he  did  not  go  up  to  her  at  once.  So, 
with  a  sigh,  he  went  into  the  dusky  chamber.  As 
he  expected,  his  wife  was  on  the  bed. 
"  Do  you  feel  any  better,  Juliette  ?  " 
"  Better  ?  — -  no  !  It  seems  as  if  I  should  go  crazy. 
Those  children  will  kill  me.  Do,  pray,  Mr.  Warren, 
send  them  off  to  bed,  or  hold  my  head,  or  do  some 
thing.  I  thought  you  never  would  come  home." 


16  WHAT    SENT   ONE   HUSBAND 

The  air  of  the  sick-room,  perfumed  as  it  was  with 
camphor  and  ammonia,  oppressed  the  weary  man. 
He  said  he  would  go  and  send  the  children  to  bed. 

This  was  more  easily  said  than  done;  the  children 
were  tired  and  cross,  and  full  of  wants,  and  Betty 
would  not  help  him  in  the  least.  Patience  and  per 
severance,  however,  got  the  last  little  urchin  into  his 
nest.  "  Now  go  to  sleep,  boys,"  said  he ;  "  your 
mother  is  sick  to-night,  and  I  must  not  hear  a 
word  from  you." 

"Seems  to  me,  mother  is  always  sick,"  said 
Henry. 

"  Then,  Master  Henry,  it  is  your  duty  always  to 
keep  still ;  —  remember  that,  will  you  !  " 

It  was  after  eight  o'clock  before  Mr.  Warren  had 
a  chance  to  eat  any  supper.  He  went  to  the  dining- 
room.  His  tea  had  stood  until  it  was  quite  cold  ;  his 
toast  was  cold,  and  a  dim  lamp  cast  a  jaundiced 
light  over  his  uninviting  repast.  He,  however,  was 
used  to  such  things ;  indeed,  he  hardly  expected 
anything  4iffereilt-  The  meal  over,  he  drew  his 
evening  paper  from  his  pocket  and  read  it,  feeling 
all  the  time  like  a  culprit.  He  knew  that  he  was 
expected  in  that  oppressive  chamber,  and  that  the 
minutes  of  his  delay  were  counted.  After  nine  it 
was,  the  clock  was  on  the  point  of  striking  ten, 
when  he  reentered  it.  Camphor  and  ammonia 
were  as  strong  as  ever,  and  the  head-ache,  too,  to  all 
appearance. 


TO   CALIFORNIA.  17 

"  Can  I  do  anything  for  you,  Juliette  ?  " 

"  Do  anything  !  I  might  die,  for  all  anybody 
would  do  for  me.  What  made  you  come  up  at 
all  ?  " 

"  You  know  very  well,  Juliette,  I  had  to  put  the 
children  to  bed,  to  get  them  out  of  your  way ;  and, 
tired  as  I  was,  I  never  got  a  mouthful  of  supper 
until  almost  nine  o'clock.  I  have  done  the  best  I 
could." 

He  said  this  in  a  tone  which  showed  that  he  was 
both  irritated  and  hurt.  Once,  Mrs.  Warren  would 
have  been  much  grieved,  and  would  have  sought 
earnestly  to  heal  the  wound  which  she  made ;  but 
being  sick  so  much  was  fast  making  her  selfish.  It 
was  only  of  self  she  thought. 

"  I  wish  you  would  not  complain  of  me,"  said  she, 
bursting  into  tears  ;  "  I  have  as  much  as  I  can  bear, 
without  being  found  fault  with." 

"  I  was  not  finding  fault  with  you,  Juliette ;  but 
a  man  can't  do  more  than  he  can  do." 

Juliette  continued  to  sob  ;  her  husband  was  silent. 
When,  at  length,  they  slept,  it  was  with  chilled  affec 
tions  and  heavy  hearts,  and  their  slumbers  were 
neither  sweet  nor  refreshing. 

Several  years  passed,  and  Mrs.  Warren's  health 

did  not  improve.     She  seemed  to  have  made  up  her 

mind  that  she  must  suffer,  and  that  people  ought  to 

pity  her,  and  not  expect  her  to  do  anything.     The 

2* 


18  WHAT   SENT   ONE   HUSBAND 

sunshine  that  had  once  been  about  her  vanished ; 
she  spoke  at  all  times  in  a  distressed  tone  of  voice  ; 
a  doleful  expression  became  habitual  with  her.  She 
made  no  exertion  which  she  could  avoid  ;  she  shirked 
every  care  which  could  be  avoided.  Mr.  Warren 
and  Betty  must  see  to  things.  Now,  Betty  was  no 
housekeeper ;  she  could  do  hard  work,  but  not  head 
work.  She  did  not  understand  economy.  She  used 
up  what  she  had,  without  thinking  of  to-morrow.  It 
was  not  her  business  to  be  bothering  as  to  how  the 
two  ends  should  meet.  Such  management  at  home, 
together  with  the  increasing  wants  of  a  family,  re 
quired  a  good  income.  Mr.  Warren's  business  gave 
him  a  comfortable  living,  but  it  was  not  quite  equal 
to  filling  up  flour-barrels  which  had  a  hole  in  the 
bottom.  He  began  to  run  behind,  and  to  become 
discouraged.  He  got  into  debt,  and  then,  going  on 
from  bad  to  worse,  he  became  completely  disheart 
ened.  His  family  was  a  drag  on  him.  He  could 
not  tell  his  wife  of  his  troubles,  —  if  he  did,  she  only 
cried,  and  said,  "  she  was  sure  she  could  not  help 
it;  she  did  all  she  could,  when  her  health  was  so 
poor.  She  thought  he  might  have  more  feeling  for 
her  than  to  complain."  He,  therefore,  formed  his 
own  plans  in  silence. 

One  October  morning,  Mrs.  Warren  awoke  with 
one  of  her  sick  head-aches.  Finding  this  to  be  the 
case,  she  went  to  sleep  again,  and  it  was  very  late 


TO    CALIFORNIA.  19 

before  she  awoke  the  second  time.  Dressing  her 
self  at  her  leisure,  she  went  to  the  dining-room. 
Some  cold  breakfast  stood  waiting  for  her,  which  she 
partook  of  alone,  —  neither  husband  "nor  children 
were  there.  At  dinner  she  met  her  children,  but  not 
her  husband ;  he  had  not  returned.  This  provoked 
her  a  little.  "  He  stays,"  thought  she,  "  just  on 
purpose  because  I  am  ill.  I  '11  keep  out  of  his  way, 
I  guess,  for  one  while."  With  this  generous  re 
solve,  she  took  to  her  darkened  chamber,  her  cam 
phor  and  ammonia  (which  she  knew  to  be  particu 
larly  unpleasant  to  him),  and  her  bandages  and  ice- 
water.  Tea-time  came,  but  not  Mr.  Warren.  The 
children  had  their  supper,  and  went  to  bed.  Eight, 
nine,  ten  o'clock  struck.  Mrs.  Warren  sprang  from 
her  bed  and  called  Betty.  "  Betty,  where  can  Mr. 
Warren  be  ?  Here  it  is  ten  o'clock,  and  he  has  not 
come  yet." 

"  I  declare,  Miss  Warren,  I  don't  know  what  can 
have  become  of  him.  There,  now,  I  do  remember. 
'Twan't  but  yesterday  he  paid  me  up  all  my  wages, 
and  paid  a  quarter  in  advance,  because,  he  said,  he 
had  the  money  by  him,  and  might  not  have  it  by  and 
by.  Then,  says  he,  '  Betty,'  says  he,  '  if  I  should  not 
be  at  home  one  of  these  nights,  you  need  not  be 
frightened.  I  have  got  to  go  off  on  some  business, 
and  may  not  get  back.  You  need  not  keep  the 
doors  open  after  ten  for  me.  I  won't  tell  Miss 


SJU  WHAT   SENT   ONE   HUSBAND 

Warren,'  says  he ;  'she  '11  worry.'  Them 's  the  very 
words  he  said.  Now,  I  '11  bet  that 's  where  he  has 
gone ;  and  we  may  as  well  lock  up  and  go  to  bed. 
He  won't  be  here  to-night." 

More  in  anger  than  sorrow,  Mrs.  Warren  con 
sented  to  this  arrangement,  and  went  back  to  her 
solitary  chamber.  Seldom  thinking  of  any  one  but 
herself,  she  settled  it  in  her  mind  that  Mr.  Warren 
had  chosen  this  particular  time  to  attend  to  his  busi 
ness  for  no  other  reason  than  to  get  rid  of  one  of 
her  headaches.  She  lay  awake  until  midnight, 
brooding  over  his  supposed  unkindness.  She  really 
hoped  that  he  would  come,  try  his  door,  and  find  it 
fast,  that  she  might  have  the  satisfaction  of  hearing 
him  go  elsewhere  to  seek  lodgings ;  for  she  had  fully 
determined  not  to  let  him  in.  Twelve  o'clock  struck 
in  the  old  church  steeple ;  no  sound  but  the  heavy 
tread  of  the  watchman  was  heard.  She  then  gave 
him  up,  and  "  nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm," 
at  length  fell  asleep. 

It  seemed  as  if  she  had  but  just  fallen  asleep, 
when  Betty  very  unceremoniously  burst  open  her 
door,  and  slamming  back  the  shutters  to  let  in  the 
gray  light  of  morning,  —  "  Miss  Warren,"  said  she, 
"  do,  for  gracious,  see  what  this  means.  Here  was 
the  market-boy  a-thumping  me  up  a  full  hour 
before  time,  and  he  set  down  his  basket  and  run 
like  shot ;  and  I  opened  it,  and  what  should  I  see 


TO   CALIFORNIA.  21 

right  on  top  but  this  letter  for  you,  from  Mr.  War 
ren  !  Something  or  other  is  wrong,  you  may  depend 
upon  it." 

Mrs.  Warren,  trembling  with  impatience,  broke 
the  seal,  and  read  as  follows  : 

' '  DEAREST  JULIETTE  : 

"  Don't  be  frightened,  now,  into  one  of  your  poor  turns. 
Nothing  very  dreadful  has  happened,  or  is  going  to  hap 
pen,  that  I  know  of.  Read  my  letter  quietly,  and  take 
what  cannot  be  helped  as  easy  as  you  can. 

"  My  business  has  been  running  behindhand  for  a  good 
while.  Every  year  I  have  found  myself  deeper  and  deeper 
in  debt.  It  wore  upon  me  dreadfully,  and  I  made  up  my 
mind  at  last  that  I  could  not  stand  it  so  for  a  great  while. 
I  never  liked  to  talk  to  you  about  it ;  you  always  seemed 
to  have  troubles  enough  of  your  own.  The  other  day, 
when  I  was  looking  over  my  accounts,  a  friend  came  in 
to  ask  me  if  I  would  sell  out.  He  wanted  to  buy,  and 
offered  me  a  fair  price.  '  But  what  shall  I  do  ?'  said  I. 
'  Go  to  California,'  says  he  ;  '  there  is  a  splendid  chance 
for  you, —  a  ship  sails  next  week.'  He  said  so  much  that  I 
took  up  with  his  advice.  I  sold  out,  paid  up  all  my  debts, 
paid  your  house-rent  for  two  years  in  advance,  and  Betty 
one  quarter  ahead.  After  this  was  all  done,  I  had  but 
just  enough  to  fit  me  out,  and  fifty  dollars  over,  which  I 
enclose  for  you.  It  will  answer  for  the  present.  You  can 
by  and  by  let  your  house,  and  go  home  to  your  mother, 
if  you  think  it  best.  I  have  no  time  to  think  or  plan  for 
you  now.  I  will  write  as  soon  as  I  can.  When  you  read 
this,  I  shall  be  far  on  my  way,  if  we  are  prospered. 

"I  love  you,  Juliette,  and  my  children,  and  it  is  for 


22 


WHAT    SENT   ONE   HUSBAND 


your  sakes,  mainly,  that  I  have  taken  this  step.  You 
could  none  of  you  bear  poverty.  I  go  in  the  ship  Emily. 
I  will  write  you  all  the  particulars  by  the  first  opportu 
nity.  Keep  up  a  good  heart,  now;  depend  upon  it  I  shall 
come  home  a  rich  man.  Gold  is  plenty  as  blackberries  in 
California,  and  I  am  not  ashamed  to  dig.  I  have  a  strong 
arm  and  a  stout  heart.  Kiss  the  children  for  me,  and  tell 
Betty  I  won't  forget  her,  if  she  will  do  well  by  you  while 
I  am  gone.  Believe  me  that  I  am  still  yours,  affection 
ately, 

"HARRY  WARREN." 

The  reading  of  this  letter,  as  might  be  imagined, 
was  followed  by  a  fit  of  hysterics,  and  shrieks,  and 
floods  of  tears,  and  wringing  of  hands.  At  one 
time,  Mrs.  Warren  would  call  her  husband  the 
greatest  savage  living.  Then,  again,  she  would 
soften  down  into  grief,  like  that  of  the  children, 
who  mourned  over  him  as  over  one  dead.  Between 
them  all  and  her  own  sorrow,  Betty  had  a  hard  time 
of  it  that  day.  However,  she  stood  at  her  post 
bravely ;  with  coaxing  and  scolding,  she  managed 
the  children,  succeeded  in  quieting  them,  and  before 
night  Mrs.  Warren  was  more  calm.  Betty  had 
such  wonderful  stories  laid  up  in  some  little  corner 
of  her  brain  about  the  gold  in  California,  how  many 
people  she  had  heard  of  who  had  come  back  rich  as 
Croesus,  that  Mrs.  Warren  could  not  but  listen. 
Then  Betty  was  so  sure  that  Mr.  Warren  would 
make  his  fortune,  —  he  was  just  the  man  for  it,  — 


TO   CALIFORNIA.  23 

that  the  hysterics  finally  had  to  yield  to  the  golden 
visions.  Still,  Mrs.  Warren  passed  from  this  state 
into  one  of  settled  melancholy,  and  continued  so  for 
many  weeks.  She  took  no  interest  either  in  her 
house  or  children.  She  gave  money  to  Betty,  and 
let  her  do  as  she  pleased  with  it.  If  they  had 
anything  to  eat,  it  was  all  very  well ;  and  if  they 
had  nothing,  it  was  just  the  same.  She  neither 
went  out  nor  saw  any  one  at  home.  Her  time  was 
spent  between  the  sofa  and  bed.  If  she  tried  to 
divert  herself  with  anything,  it  was  with  very  light 
reading,  but  generally  even  that  required  more 
effort  than  she  chose  to  make.  The  children  learned 
to  keep  out  of  her  way ;  she  could  bear  no  noise,  she 
said,  and  they  did  not  like  to  be  with  her.  Still  she 
had  been  so  long  inefficient  in  her  family,  that  she 
was  not  much  missed  ;  they  were  accustomed  to  do 
without  her. 

One  day  Betty  came  in  as  usual  for  money.  Mrs. 
Warren  went  to  her  purse,  and,  to  her  utter  amaze* 
ment,  found  that  she  had  but  one  ten-dollar  bill  left. 
She  handed  it  to  Betty,  and,  with  the  empty  purse 
in  her  hand,  she  sunk  down  into  a  seat.  For  the 
first  time  it  flashed  over  her  that  there  was  a  bot 
tom  to  her  purse  ;  and,  who  was  to  refill  it  ?  She 
had  been  so  absorbed  by  her  own  selfish  sorrows, 
that  she  really  had  not  before  given  the  subject  a 
thought.  She  was  overwhelmed  at  this  discovery. 


24  WHAT   SENT   ONE   HDSBAND 

What  was  now  to  be  done  ?  What  should  she  do  ? 
Where  should  she  go  ?  Roused  by  this  stirring 
necessity,  her  mind  began  to  work  with  vigor.  Plan 
succeeded  plan,  and  thought  thought,  in  wild  confu 
sion.  She  would  go  home  to  her  mother.  —  She 
would  not.  go  home  to  her  mother.  The  children 
would  kill  the  old  folks.  But  she  must  go  home  to 
her  mother.  —  No,  she  would  n't  go  home  to  her 
mother.  A  poor,  deserted  wife,  with  four  children 
on  her  hands,  —  the  shame  of  it  would  kill  her ;  she 
would  beg  first.  But,  what  could  she  do  ?  Here 
gaped  before  her  an  empty  purse.  "  What  can  I 
do  ?  I  '11  keep  school.  —  Oil  should  die,  shut  up 
in  a  hot  room,  with  a  parcel  of  children.  I  could 
not  live  one  month  and  keep  school.  Then  I  must 
fill  up  my  house  with  boarders.  —  What  could  I  do 
with  boarders,  sick  as  I  am  all  the  while  ?  I  hate 
house-keeping  ;  I  cannot  bear  care  ! "  Wide  gaped 
the  empty  purse  still.  She  flung  it  down,  and  her 
self,  too,  on  the  carpet,  and  wept  like  a  child.  "  My 
children  must  have  bread,  and  I  must  get  it  for 
them."  Ah !  now  those  tears  fall  for  them ;  the 
first  tears  which  had  fallen  for  any  one  but  self. 
They  softened  her  parching  heart,  and  refreshed  it 
as  summer  rain  the  thirsty  earth. 

"  I  will  not  go  home  ! "  said  she,  rousing  herself 
with  a  sudden  energy.  "  I  believe  that  I  can,  and 
I  will,  support  my  family  myself.  I  know  it  is  in 


TO   CALIFORNIA.  25 

me.  I  will  fill  my  house  with  boarders.  I  will  get 
a  living,  and  I  will  set  about  it  before  my  last  dol 
lar  is  gone."  Back  went  the  clasp  of  the  empty 
purse,  and  its  gaping  mouth  was  silenced. 

Juliette  Harwood  had  not  been  like  Mrs.  Warren. 
She  had  both  energy  and  sweetness  of  character 
when  Henry  Warren  wooed  her.  The  seeds  of  her 
future  misery,  however,  had  been  carefully  sown  by 
her  over-indulgent  mother.  If  anything  ailed  Juli 
ette,  it  was  a  great  affair.  She  was  nursed,  arid 
tended,  and  babied,  and  never  allowed  to  exert  her 
self  at  all.  She  was  brought  up  to  feel  that  every 
thing  must  yield  to  her  poor  feelings ;  so  that  when, 
after  her  marriage,  her  health  really  became  some 
what  delicate,  she  had  no  resolution  to  meet  it.  As 
we  have  seen,  she  became  selfish  and  indifferent. 
Another  day  had  now  dawned,  and  the  latent  energy 
of  Juliette  Harwood  must  come  forth  to  Juliette 
Warren.  That  kind  heart  and  strong  arm,  which 
had  so  long  supported  her,  had  been  taken  away.. 
Now  she  had  no  one  but  herself  to  depend  upon. 

"  I  will  take  boarders."  This  she  settled,  and 
with  promptness  went  immediately  about  it.  For 
the  first  time  since  her  husband's  departure,  she 
went  out  on  a  week-day.  She  went  to  her  husband's 
friend,  Charles  Morton.  Mr.  Morton  could  scarcely 
refrain  from  expressing  his  astonishment,  when  he 
heard  her  proposal.  Sad  misgivings  he  had  as  to 
3 


26  WHAT   SENT   ONE   HUSBAND 

its  success;  nevertheless,  he  promised  to  aid  her. 
Indeed,  he  knew  then  of  two  young  men  who  were 
looking  for  just  such  a  place.  As  they  were  near 
by,  he  offered  to  go  at  once  and  see  them.  Mrs. 
Warren  sat  down  and  awaited  his  return.  The 
young  men  accepted  the  offer,  and  wished  to  come  the 
next  day.  This  was  pressing  matters  hard.  Mrs. 
Warren  calculated  on  some  weeks,  at  least,  for  pre 
paration, —  she  knew  she  must  get  used  to  effort;  but 
here  it  was,  —  she  must  take  the  boarders  at  their 
time,  or  lose  them.  She  decided  to  take  them. 

Betty  as  yet  knew  not  a  word  about  the  matter. 
"  Would  she  consent  to  remain,"  anxiously  thought 
Mrs.  Warren,  "  to  remain  and  work  so  much  harder  ? 
Then  she  had  had  her  own  way  so  long,  would  she 
bear  a  mistress  ?  If  she  should  go,  how  was  her 
place  to  be  supplied  ?  She  had  been  so  long  in  the 
family,  she  knew  everything  they  had,  and  where  it 
was  kept."  Mrs.  Warren  felt  her  ignorance.  She 
would  have  to  go  to  Betty  to  ask  about  everything. 
Indeed,  she  did  not  know  what  she  had.  It  seemed 
.as  if  she  could  not  stir  hand  or  foot  without  Betty. 
Yet,  if  she  would  go,  she  must  make  up  her  mind  to 
it ;  for  here  she  was,  —  her  boarders  were  engaged. 
More  than  anything  else  she  dreaded  breaking  the 
subject  to  Betty.  This  was  her  first  trial ;  it  was  a 
severe  one,  and  we  must  not  blame  her  too  much  be 
cause,  woman-like,  she  sat  down  first  and  had  a  good 


TO   CALIFORNIA.  27 

cry  over  it.  But  crying  did  not  help  it  any,  and 
time  pressed.  So  she  wound  up  her  resolution  once 
more,  and  called  Betty. 

"  Marm  ?  "  said  she. 

"  I  want  to  see  you  a  few  minutes,  Betty." 

"  I  am  busy  now  ;  I  '11  come  by  and  by." 

"  I  cannot  wait,  Betty.     I  want  to  see  you  now." 

The  very  unusual  tone  of  decision  in  which  this 
was  uttered  surprised  Betty  into  instant  obedience. 

"  What  do  you  want  of  me  ?  "  said  she,  rather 
pettishly,  as  she  entered  the  parlor. 

Mrs.  Warren's  heart  sunk.  "  I  want  to  talk  with 
you,  Betty,  a  little  about  my  plans.  I  've  got  to  do 
something  to  get  a  living.  My  money  is  all  gone. 
I  gave  you  the  last  dollar,  this  morning." 

"  The  land  !  Well,  I  've  been  expecting  it,  this 
some  time.  I  s'pose  now  you  will  go  home  to  your 
mother." 

"  No,  I  have  decided  not  to  go  home.  I  am  go 
ing  to  fill  my  house  up  with  boarders,  and  two  are 
coming  to-morrow,"  said  she,  making  a  desperate 
effort  to  get  the  worst  out. 

"  Well,  if  that  an't  a  pretty  piece  of  work  !  "  said 
Betty,  her  face  turning  all  manner  of  colors ;  "  and 
you  think  I  am  going  to  take  care  of  you  and  the 
children,  and  a  house-full  of  boarders  into  the  bar 
gain,  do  you?  I  tell  you,  Miss  Warren,  I  won't 
slave  myself  to  death  so,  for  nobody !  " 


28  WHAT   SENT   ONE   HUSBAND 

"  I  did  not  think  you  would,"  said  Mrs.  Warren, 
slowly  and  sadly.  "  I  had  about  made  up  my  mind 
that  you  would  leave  me,  and  I  should  have  to  get 
another  girl.  I  will  go  to  the  office  now.  You  will 
stay,  Betty,  long  enough  to  teach  her  the  way  round, 
won't  you  ?  " 

Betty  looked  thunderstruck;  she  could  not  im 
mediately  speak. 

"  And  you  sick  all  the  time !  "  said  she,  at  last. 
"  You  can't  do  nothing.  How  will  you  look  going 
down  and  seeing  to  dinner,  with  one  of  your  head 
aches,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  " 

"  I  expect  it  will  come  hard  on  me,  Betty;  but  I 
cannot  help  it,  —  it  must  be  done.  I  have  made  up 
my  mind  to  it.  You  will  stay  with  me  a  fortnight, 
won't  you  ?  I  don't  expect  to  get  any  one  to  fill 
your  place,  you  have  been  with  us  so  long  ;  —  let  me 
.gee,  now,  ever  since  Henry  was  born ;  — you  seem  like 
one  of  us.  Still,  I  must  do  the  best  I  can.  Do, 
for  my  sake,  Betty,  try  and  make  it  easy  for  me  to 
break  in  a  new  hand.  I  will  go  right  out  now,  and 
see  what  I  can  do." 

Mrs.  Warren  began  to  tie  on  her  bonnet. 

"  Well,  if  this  an't  pretty  times !  "  said  Betty, 
her  face  becoming  redder  and  redder,  while  her  voice 
grew  husky.  "  Do  you  think,  Miss  Warren,  that  I 
am  really  a  going  off  to  leave  you  in  such  a  pickle  ? 
I  guess  I  can  work  as  hard  as  you,  any  day  ;  and  if 


TO    CALIFORNIA.  29 

we  can't  both  of  us  together  get  victuals  and  drink 
for  the  children,  why,  we  '11  give  it  up.  When  I  am 
gone,  you  can  get  another  gal,  if  you  are  a  mind  to." 

So  Betty  remained,  and  took  hold  of  her  new  la 
bors  courageously.  This  was  an  inexpressible  relief 
to  Mrs.  Warren.  Indeed,  it  is  somewhat  doubtful 
whether  she  could  have  gone  on  without  her. 

Her  house  filled  up  rapidly,  and  unwearied  exer 
tions  and  care  were  necessary  to  keep  it  in  order. 
After  some  severe  struggles  with  her  old  habits  of  in 
dolence  and  indulgence,  she  came  off  conqueror.  She 
found  out  there  was  such  a  thing  as  keeping  illness 
confined  within  its  proper  sphere,  —  that  is,  to  the 
body,  while  the  mind  might  go  free.  She  found  out 
that  throbbing  temples  and  disordered  nerves  could  be 
made  to  obey,  as  well  as  rule.  At  those  times  when, 
if  left  to  the  dictates  of  her  own  poor  feelings,  she 
would  scarcely  have  dragged  one  foot  after  another, 
she  found  out  that  she  could  step  about  her  day's 
work,  and  briskly,  too.  Every  victory  gained  made 
her  stronger.  Then,  in  addition  to  this  moral  reno 
vation,  her  health  really  improved.  She  found  out 
there  was  no  doctor  for  her  like  Dr.  "  Hai-e-to." 
Her  cheeks  became  ruddy  and  her  eyes  bright,  and 
her  mind  awoke  to  cheerfulness  and  activity,  in  the 
pleasant  society  which  was  now  about  her.  Juliette 
Warren,  in  a  few  months,  was  very  much  changed, 
as  all  would  have  seen,  could  they  have  gone  with 


30  WHAT   SENT   ONE   HUSBAND 

Betty  to  her  chamber,  when,  for  the  first  time  since 
the  day  the  boarders  came,  she  carried  up  a  meal  to 
her,  and  found  her  on  the  bed  with  her  mending- 
basket  by  her,  thimble  on,  work  in  hand,  trying 
between  the  paroxysms  of  pain  to  set  a  few  stitches. 

"  The  land,  Miss  Warren  !  "  said  old  Betty,  "  if 
I  was  as  sick  as  to  go  to  bed,  I  am  sure  I  would  n't 
sew." 

"  0, 1  must ;  I  cannot  afford  time  to  be  sick." 

"  Well,  now,  if  I  shall  not  give  it  all  up  !  What 
do  you  think  Mr.  Warren  would  say,  to  see  you 
now  ?  I  '11  bet  he  would  n't  believe  his  own  eyes." 

Mrs.  Warren  made  no  reply ;  but  this  remark  of 
Betty's  went  like  an  arrow  to  her  heart.  In  an 
instant  a  gleam  of  light  shot  across  the  past.  As 
if  by  a  sudden  revelation,  she  saw  at  a  glance  all  its 
mistakes.  Days,  months,  nay,  years,  were  mar 
shalled  before  her ;  through  all  of  which  she  had 
been  the  sick,  complaining,  inefficient  wife  and  moth 
er.  She  was  almost  overwhelmed;  she  had  never 
seen  it  so  before.  Scene  after  scene  crowded  upon 
her  mind,  in  which  she  had  taxed  her  husband's  pa 
tience  to  the  utmost.  And  what  had  she  given  him 
in  return  for  all  his  kindness  ?  Nothing.  His  home 
had  been  uncomfortable,  and  his  money  had  been 
wasted.  Now  she  could  see  plainly  enough  why  he 
left  her.  Now  she  felt  how  deeply  she  had  wronged 
him.  She  longed  to  throw  herself  at  his  feet,  and 


TO   CALIFORNIA.  31 

implore  his  forgiveness.  All  her  early  love  for  him 
revived  in  its  intensity.  "  0  my  God ! "  she  ex 
claimed,  in  a  burst  of  grief,  "  spare  him,  0,  spare 
him  to  return,  that  I  may  make  some  amends  for  the 
injury  I  have  done  him,  and  that  he  may  know  of 
my  penitence  and  love  !  " 

For  many  days  after  this,  Mrs.  Warren  carried 
with  her  an  aching  heart.  It  required  a  prodigious 
effort  for  her  to  make  exertion,  in  this  state  of  feel 
ing  ;  but  it  must  be  done.  Even  sorrow  could  not 
be  indulged  in  selfishly. 

She  sought  some  comfort  by  writing  to  her  hus 
band,  stealing  time  for  this  from  her  sleep.  These 
letters,  by  the  way,  never  reached  him ;  neither  did 
his  reach  her. 

At  this  time,  also,  she  formed  another  plan,  which 
was  a  comfort  to  her.  She  determined  to  lay  by 
every  cent  which  she  could  possibly  spare  from  her 
earnings,  hoping  to  collect  at  least  a  small  sum  tow 
ards  assisting  her  husband  in  setting  up  in  busi 
ness,  should  he  come  home  as  poor  as  he  went.  This 
gave  her  a  new  motive  for  exertion.  She  gave  her 
whole  mind  to  her  business.  Her  house  was  popu 
lar  ;  her  table  was  filled  to  overflowing ;  her  affairs 
were  well  managed.  She  was,  as  she  deserved  to 
be,  —  for  there  were  not  ten  ladies  in  the  city  who 
made  more  effort,  —  she  was  successful.  Her  children 
were  put  out  to  the  best  schools.  They  improved 


32  WHAT   SENT   ONE   HUSBAND 

rapidly  in  mind  and  manners.  Henry  was  a  great 
help  to  her  ;  he  was  a  manly  little  fellow,  with  his 
father's  kind  heart. 

Betty  continued  to  rule  in  the  kitchen,  though  a 
stout  girl  was  brought  in  to  serve  under  her.  The 
boarders  always  knew  Betty's  cooking,  —  no  one  else 
made  things  taste  quite  so  well ;  so  she  kept  on  her 
way,  doing  her  full  share  of  the  fretting  and  scold 
ing,  and  her  full  share  of  the  work,  too.  She  never 
let  her  mistress  go  ahead  of  her ;  on  her  feet  she 
would  stand  "  as  long  as  Miss  Warren,  she  knew," 
if  she  was  tired  enough  to  drop. 

One  morning  Mrs.  Warren  was  presiding,  as  usual, 
at  her  cheerful  breakfast-table.  She  looked  the  per 
sonification  of  health  and  neatness.  Her  soft,  glossy 
hair  was  brushed  back  under  an  embroidered  cap, 
which  was  tied  with  rose-colored  strings,  deepening 
a  little  the  shade  of  the  peach-blossom  on  her  cheek. 
A  neat  morning  dress,  fitting  her  trim  figure,  was 
finished  off  at  top  by  a  white  collar,  which  encircled 
her  white  throat.  She  was  handing  a  cup  of  coffee, 
when  she  heard  the  front  door  open.  As  her  table 
was  full,  she  set  down  the  cup  to  listen.  Steps  were 
heard  on  the  stairs.  Mr.  Morton  entered  the  dining- 
room,  and  a  gentleman  followed. —  A  stranger,  was 
he  ?  His  sun-burnt  face  was  almost  concealed  by 
immense  mustaches  and  whiskers.  He  was  stout 
and  short,  and  singularly  dressed.  —  A  stranger,  was 


TO    CALIFORNIA.  33 

he  ?  Eye  met  eye  and  heart  leaped  to  heart,  and 
with  a  scream  of  joy  she  sprang  to  meet  her  hus 
band.  Yes,  it  was  he.  There  he  was,  safe  and  sound, 
toils  and  dangers  notwithstanding,  —  safe  in  his  own 
home ;  the  wife  of  his  early  love  restored  to  him  ; 
his  children,  boys  of  whom  any  man  might  be  proud, 
shouting  around  him ;  and  there,  in  the  rear,  faith 
ful  old  Betty,  wiping  her  eyes  with  the  corner  of 
her  apron,  and  crying,  because  "  she  did  not  know 
what  on  airth  else  to  do." 

As  we  are  strangers,  it  would  be  polite  for  us  to 
withdraw,  with  the  boarders,  and  leave  the  family  to 
their  well-earned  joy ;  but  we  cannot  refrain  from 
stealing,  by  and  by,  away  from  the  children,  up 
stairs  with  Harry  Warren  and  his  wife,  into  the  old 
chamber.  No  camphor  and  ammonia  are  there  now, 
I  promise  you.  They  sat  down  in  the  old  arm-chair 
together,  and  Juliette  told  over  her  story,  showing 
the  purse,  which,  when  empty,  with  gaping  mouth, 
preached  to  her  so  loudly  and  fearfully  one  day,  and 
what  effort  and  toil  it  cost  her  to  fill  it,  and  how 
much  good  the  toil  had  done  her.  Then,  with  trem 
bling  voice  and  bowed  head,  she  lingered  on  that 
night  of  bitterest  sorrow,  when  Betty  gave  her  the 
key  of  the  past,  and  she  saw  how,  through  excessive 
selfishness,  she  had  sinned.  She  told,  too,  how  her 
heart  hud  asked  for  her  husband's  forgiveness.  Then 
came  the  plan  she  had  found  comfort  in.  With 


34      WHAT   SENT   ONE   HUSBAND   TO    CALIFORNIA. 

glistening  eye  and  trembling  fingers,  she  snapped 
open  the  purse  before  him,  and  showed  to  him  her 
little  treasure  of  hoarded  gold,  hoarded  for  him 
alone ;  she  poured  it  all  out  into  his  hard,  brown 
hand,  while  the  tears,  big  tears,  rolling  down  his 
swarthy  cheeks,  dropped  upon  it.  He,  weeping  over 
a  little  heap  of  yellow  dust,  who,  in  California's 
mines,  had  gathered  it  by  the  spade-full !  Yet  not 
California,  with  all  her  golden  treasures,  could  have 
purchased  for  the  grateful  man  what  this  had  given 
him. 

"We  must  not  linger  over  the  opening  of  the  old 
chest,  which  was  so  well  freighted  with  native  ore ; 
enough  for  all,  Betty  included,  and  enough,  we  pre 
sume,  to  have  set  Mr.  Warren  up  in  that  very  hand 
some  store  where  last  we  saw  him. 

Juliette  Warren  is  still  in  comfortable  health,  an 
energetic  woman,  and  a  first-rate  housekeeper.  If 
ever  she  finds  herself  "  running  down"  as  they 
say,  she  takes  to  her  old  Doctor  Have-to  ;  and  if  no 
necessity  is  laid  upon  her  for  exertion,  she  lays  it 
upon  herself.  Long  life  and  happiness  to  them  and 
their  children  ! 

Should  there  be  any  wives  who  have  not  yet  been 
able  to  find  out  what  sent  their  husbands  to  Califor 
nia,  Juliette's  history  may  give  them  a  little  light  on 
the  matter. 


THE  FIRST  CROSS  WORD. 

"  You  seem  happy,  Annette,  always.  '  I  have 
never  been  in  a  family  where  the  husband  and  wife 
seemed  more  so." 

"  Well  done,  Kate,"  said  Mrs.  Huntington,  laugh 
ing  ;  "  you  have  used  the  word  seem  only  twice  in 
that  short  sentence.  And  now  you  have  a  begging 
way  about  you,  as  if  you  were  really  in  earnest  to 
hear  something  about  married  life,  before  taking  the 
fatal  step.  It  is  well  Henry  is  not  here,  to  see  the 
look  of  sadness  in  the  eye  of  his  bride-elect.  He 
might  fancy  her  heart  was  full  of  misgivings,  instead 
of  wedding  finery." 

"  Don't  laugh  at  me,  Annette ;  talk  with  me  as 
you  used  to  do.  I  love  Henry,  you  know,  and  yet 
I  have  many  misgivings  about  married  life.  1  see 
so  few  who  are  really  happy  in  this  relation,  —  I 
mean  happy  as  I  should  wish  to  be.  You  seem  to 
come  nearer  to  it  than  any  one  else.  Don't  you 
ever " 

"  Quarrel  ?  —  no,  not  often,  now.  We  had  our 
breaking  in.  I  believe  it  must  come  to  all,  sooner 
or  later." 


36  THE   FIRST    CROSS    WORD. 

"  Do  tell  me  about  it,  will  you,  Annette  ?" 
"  Yes,  if  you  are  very  desirous  of  it.     You  may 
learn  something  from  it. 

"  I  was  a  romantic  girl,  as  you  well  know,  Kate. 
Some  few  friends  I  had,  whom  -I  loved  dearly ;  but 
these  friendships  did  not  quite  satisfy  my  heart. 
Something  more  it  craved.  I  hardly  knew  what, 
until  I  loved  my  husband.  When  we  were  first 
married,  I  used-sometimes  to  ask  myself,  '  Now,  do 
I  find  in  this  life  all  which  I  expected  to  find  ?  Am 
I  as  happy  as  I  thought  I  should  be  ?  '  My  heart 
always  responded,  « Yes,  and  more  so.'  With  us  the 
romance  of  married  life  —  if  I  may  call  it  so  — 
held  on  a  long  time.  For  my  part,  I  was  conscious 
of  a  pleasurable  excitement  of  feeling,  when  we  were 
together.  I  enjoyed  riding  and  walking  alone  with 
him.  The  brightest  hours  of  the  day  were  those  in 
which  we  sat  down  alone  together,  to  talk  or  read. 
For  a  long  time  I  felt  a  gentle  restraint  in  his  pres 
ence.  I  liked  to  be  becomingly  dressed,  and  to  feel 
in  tune.  When  dull,  I  made  an  effort  to  be  social 
and  cheerful,  if  he  was  present.  I  had  a  great  fear 
of  getting  into  the  way  of  sitting  down  stupidly  with 
my  husband,  or  of  having  nothing  to  talk  about  but 
the  children  and  the  butcher's  bill.  I  made  a  busi 
ness  of  remembering  every  pleasant  thing  which  I 
read,  or  heard,  or  thought,  to  tell  him  ;  and  when 
all  these  subjects  were  exhausted,  we  had  each  of  us 


THE   FIRST    CROSS   WORD.  37 

a  hobby  we  could  ride,  so  that  we  were  never  silent 
for  want  of  something  to  say.  Thus  we  lived  for  a 
year  or  two.  I  was  very  happy.  I  think  people 
were  often  surprised  to  see  us  continue  to  enjoy 
each  other's  society  with  so  much  zest. 

"  But  there  was  this  about  it.  As  yet  I  had  no 
thing  to  try  me.  We  were  boarding,  I  had  no  care, 
and  his  tenderness  and  interest  were  a  sovereign 
panacea  for  the  little  ails  and  roughnesses '  which 
must  fall  to  us  in  our  best  estate.  But  this  could 
not  last  forever.  He  became  more  and  more 
occupied  in  his  business,  and  I  at  length  had 
a  house  and  a  baby  to  look  after.  Then,  for  the 
first  time,  our  mutual  forbearance  was  put  to  the 
test.  Hitherto  we  had  been  devoted  to  each  other  ; 
now  the  real  cares  of  life  pressed  upon  us  so  as 
often  really  to  absorb  our  energies.  I  was  the 
first  to  feel  the  change.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if 
something  were  overshadowing  us.  Sometimes  I 
would  get  sentimental,  and  think  he  did  not  love  me 
as  he  once  did.  As  I  look  back  now,  I  am  convinced 
that  here  was  my  first  wrong  step.  Indulgence  in 
these  moods  weakened  my  resolution.  It  was  an 
injustice  to  him  of  which  I  ought  not  to  have  been 
guilty.  It  left  me,  too,  with  a  wounded  feeling,  as 
if  I  had  been  wronged,  which  began  to  affect  my 
spirits. 

"  Once,  I  had  for  some  time  carried  about  this 

4 


38  THE   FIRST   CROSS   WORD. 

little  sore  spot  in  my  heart.  I  kept  the  matter  all 
to  myself,  for  I  was  in  part  ashamed  and  in  part 
too  proud  to  speak  of  it.  Here  was  another  wrong 
step.  There  is  no  security  of  happiness  in  married 
life  but  in  the  most  perfect  confidence. 

"  There  came  a  season  of  damp,  chilly  weather. 
One  morning  I  got  up  feeling  very  irritable.  I  had 
taken  cold,  my  head  ached,  and  my  baby  had  been 
troublesome  during  the  night.  In  my  kitchen  I  had 
a  cross,  ignorant  servant-girl ;  and  on  this  particular 
morning  she  had  done  her  very  worst  for  breakfast. 
The  beef-steak  was  burned  to  a  cinder,  the  eggs 
were  like  bullets,  the  bread  was  half-baked,  and  the 
coffee,  which  was  our  main  stay,  was  execrable.  My 
husband  was  very  patient  with  all  this,  until  it  came 
to  the  coffee  ;  and  this  upset  him.  He  put  his  cup 
down,  and  said,  in  a  half-vexed  tone,  '  I  do  wish  we 
could  ever  have  any  good  coffee  !  Annette,  why  can 
not  you  have  it  made  as  my  mother  does  ? ' 

"  This  was  the  drop  too  much  for  me,  and  I  boiled 
over.  '  You  never  think  anything  on  our  table  fit  to 
be  eaten  ! '  said  I,  and  I  almost  started  at  the  sound 
of  my  own  voice.  '  You  had  better  live  at  home, 
if  you  are  not  satisfied,  or  else  provide  me  with  de 
cent  servants.  I  cannot  do  everything,  —  take  care 
of  my  baby  all  night,  and  get  the  breakfast  too.' 

" '  I  did  not  know  before  that  I  was  so  very 
.unreasonable,'  said  he,  in  a  tone  of  injured  feeling. 


THE    FIRST   CROSS    WORD.  39 

He  sat  a  few  minutes,  then  rose,  left  his  untested 
breakfast,  put  on  his  hat,  and  went  off. 

"  When  I  heard  the  door  shut  behind  him,  all  my 
temper  left  me.  I  went  into  my  room,  locked  my 
self  in,  sat  down,  and  cried  like  a  child.  This  was 
ike  first  cross  word  I  had  ever  spoken  to  my  hus 
band.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  some  sudden  calamity 
had  befallen  us.  I  worked  myself  up  to  such  a  pitch 
of  feeling,  that  I  walked  about  the  room  wringing 
my  hands. 

"  '  0,  it  is  all  over  with  us.'  thought  I ;  '  we 
shall  never  be  happy  together  again  in  this  world.' 
This  thought  made  me  unspeakably  miserable.  I 
felt  as  if  a  black  pall  had  fallen  around  me,  and  in 
the  future  there  was  only  blank  —  darkness.  In  my 
misery  I  sought  to  comfort  myself  by  blaming  him. 
'  He  need  not  have  spoken  so  to  me,  at  any  rate,' 
said  I,  out  loud.  '  He  might  have  seen  how  I  felt ;  it 
was  too  much  for  any  one  to  bear.  It  really  was 
not  one  bit  kind  in  him.  It  is  plain  enough  that  he 
does  not  care  for  my  comfort  as  he  once  did.  Then 
to  be  always  telling  jne  what  nice  things  his  mother 
cooks,  when  he  knows  I  am  trying  to  do  my  very 
best  to  learn  to  please  him  !  It  is  too  bad.' 

"  Don't  look  so  dreadfully  sober,  Kate.  My  baby 
cried  just  here,  and  I  had  to  run  before  I  was 
through  with  my  catalogue  of  grievances ;  yet  I  had 
gone  far  enough  to  get  well  on  the  wrong  track 


40  THE   FIRST   CROSS   WORD. 

again.  I  began  to  calm  myself  with  the  reflection 
that  if  there  had  been  a  great  wrong  done  I  was 
not  the  only  one  to  blame  for  it.  I  was  dreadfully 
sorry  that  I  had  spoken  cross  to  him,  but  I  thought 
he  ought  to  be  sorry  too.  Before  my  baby  had 
finished  crying,  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  I  would 
not  exhibit  signs  of  penitence  until  I  saw  some  in 
him. 

"  So  I  bathed  my  face,  that  no  traces  of  tears  might 
remain,  dressed  myself  with  unusual  care,  and  went 
down  to  old  Bridget,  to  give  some  very  particular 
directions  about  the  dinner.  I  did  this  with  a 
martyr-like  spirit.  I  meant  to  try  my  best  to  make 
him  sorry  for  his  injustice.  I  resolved  to  reproach 
him  with  a  first-rate  dinner,  good  as  his  mother 
could  cook.  To  whet  the  edge  of  my  delicate  re 
proof,  I  made,  with  my  own  hands,  a  most  excellent 
cup  of  coffee. 

"  One  o'clock  came  at  last,  though  I  thought  it 
never  would ;  the  door  opened,  and  I  heard  his  quick 
step  in  the  hall.  Of  all  things  in  this  world,  he 
was  whistling  !  He  came  to  the  table  with  a  bright 
face,  from  which  every  trace  of  the  morning's  cloud 
had  disappeared,  and,  as  he  sat  down,  looked  around 
with  a  pleased  expression. 

"  '  Why,  Annette,'  said  he,  '  what  a  nice  dinner ! ' 

"  '  I  am  glad  you  are  pleased,'  said  I,  in  a  sub 
dued  tone. 


THE   FIRST   CROSS   WORD.  41 

"  '  Capital !  '  said  he  ;  '  the  best  roast  we  have 
had  this  season  ! ' 

"  He  was  so  much  taken  up  with  my  delicate  re 
proofs  as  not  to  notice  that  I  was  out  of  spirits.  I 
was  half  pleased  and  half  provoked ;  but  I  kept 
rather  still,  making  little  conversation,  excepting  in 
reply  to  him. 

"  After  dessert,  I  handed  him  his  cup  of  coffee. 
He  was  quite  astonished.  '  Why,  Annette,'  said  he, 
'  I  do  believe  you  went  to  work  to-day  to  see  what 
you  could  do.' 

"  He  had  hit  the  truth,  though  without  the  least 
suspicion  of  the  cause.  My  first  impulse  was,  to  be 
honest,  and  out  with  it,  by  replying,  'Is  it  as 
good  as  your  mother  makes  ? '  This  would  have 
given  him  the  key  to  the  whole  story,  —  he  would 
have  ferreted  it  all  out,  and  we  should  have  settled 
it  there ;  but  I  felt  ashamed  to.  I  sipped  my  coffee 
in  silence.  The  golden  moment  passed,  and  my 
good  angel  took  his  flight.  Pride  had  the'  day.  I 
even  began  to  be  vexed  at  his  enjoying  a  good  dinner 
so  much,  and  so  easily  forgetting  what  had  caused  me 
so  much  suffering.  He  was  very  busy  on  that  day, 
and  did  not  stay  with  me  as  long  as  usual  to  chat, 
but  went  off  whistling  even  more  cheerily  than 
when  he  came. 

"  I  went  up  into  the  nursery,  and  sat  down  to  think 
it  over.  Baby  was  asleep,  the  rain  was  pattering 


42  THE    FIRST    CROSS   WORD. 

against  the  windows,  the  wind  was  rising,  and  to 
me  the  world  looked  dreary  enough.  I  had  tired 
myself  all  out  getting  up  such  a  dinner  ;  and  now 
the  excitement  was  over,  and  I  felt  the  reaction,  I 
began  to  ask  myself  what  I  had  got  for  it.  Just 
nothing  at  all.  My  husband  either  did  not  or  would 
not  see  that  there  was  anything  to  be  reconciled 
about.  I  blamed  him  for  his  insensibility.  '  Once,' 
thought  I,  '  he  would  have  noticed  any  change  in 
my  voice,  or  any  shadow  which  came  over  my  spirits  ; 
now,  I  can  really  be  cross  to  him,  and  he  does  not 
mind  it  at  all.' 

"  I  had  a  doleful  afternoon  of  it.  I  was  restless 
enough  ;  trying  first  one  employment  and  then  an 
other,  but  finding  nothing  that  would  suit.  I  went 
down  to  lea,  further,  if  anything,  from  the  right 
point  than  I  had  been  at  noon.  I  sat  dejected  and 
silent.  My  husband  tried  once  or  twice  to  engage 
me  in  conversation,  without  success. 

"  '  Annette,'  said  he,  at  length,  in  a  kind  tone, 
'  do  not  you  feel  well  to-day  ?  ' 

"  '  Not  very,'  said  I,  with  a  sigh. 

"  '  What  is  the  matter  ? ' 

"  «  My  head  aches  ;  the  baby  kept  me  awake  al 
most  all  night.'  This  was  the  truth,  but  only  in 
part,  and  I  felt  guilty  as  I  said  it.  Then  he 
begged  me  to  go  and  lie  down  on  the  sofa  in  the  par- 


THE   FIRST    CROSS    WORD.  43 

lor,  and  said  he  would  read  to  me  anything  that  1 
would  like  to  hear. 

"  I  felt  that  this  was  kind  in  him.  It  was  like 
old  times ;  the  new  times,  you  see,  had  been  but  a 
day,  but  to  me  it  seemed  very  long ;  yet  it  was  not 
what  I  wanted.  I  wished  to  have  the  trouble  cleared 
away,  not  bridged  over ;  and  I  determined  to  hold 
out  until  it  should  come  to  this,  and  he  should  see 
and  feel  that  I  could  not  be  made  happy,  after  a 
cross  word,  without  a  scene  of  mutual  contrition 
and  forgiveness ;  so  I  would  not  stay  and  be  read 
to,  but  told  him  I  must  go  to  bed.  I  left  him  in 
his  easy-chair,  with  his  study-lamp  and  book  and 
bright  fire,  in  regular  old-bachelor  style,  and  went 
off  into  my  nursery,  and  then  to  bed,  and  cried  my 
self  to  sleep.  You  laugh,  Kate,  as  if  you  thought  I 
was  a  fool.  I  think  so  myself  now." 

"  How  did  it  all  end,  Annette  ?  " 

"  I  held  out  a  week,  becoming  every  day  more 
and  more  sad,  and  sulky,  I  may  as  well  call  it. 
When  I  was  left  alone,  I  used  to  take  my  baby  up 
and  cry  over  him,  as  if  my  husband  were  dead,  and 
the  child  were  all  I  had  left  in  the  world.  Dear 
me  !  how  unhappy  I  was,  and  every  day  added  to  it. 
I  would  find  something  in  his  conduct  to  pain  me, 
every  time  we  met.  Either  he  was  too  attentive  or 
not  attentive  enough ;  talked  too  much  or  too  little 

"  He  bore  my  moody  ill-humor  most  patiently, 


44  THE   FIRST   CBOSS   WORD. 

thinking  I  was  ill.  One  day  he  came  home,  and 
told  me  he  had  obtained  a  week's  leave  of  absence, 
and  had  engaged  a  buggy,  and  I  must  pack  up  my 
self  and  baby,  and  be  ready  to  start  off  in  an  hour. 
He  was  going  to  take  me  home  to  my  mother's. 
'  We  may  as  well  have  a  journey  as  pay  doctors'  bills, 
Annette,'  said  he  ;  '  and  as  to  having  you  drooping 
about  in  this  style  any  longer,  I  am  not  going  to. 
We  will  send  off  old  Bridget,  lockup  our  house, -run 
away  from  all  care,  and  have  some  fun.' 

"  He  looked  up  so  kindly  I  could  have  fallen 
upon  his  neck  and  wept  my  heart  out,  to  think  how 
ugly  I  had  been  ;  but  there  was  no  time  then  to  talk 
it  over.  I  hurried  away  to  pack,  but  before  I  was 
half  through  with  the  packing,  I  resolved  that  I 
would  tell  him  the  whole  story,  from  beginning  to 
end.  The  moment  I  came  to  this  determination, 
the  load  was  gone ;  my  heart  seemed  light  as  a 
feather ;  the  expression  of  my  countenance,  the 
tones  of  my  voice,  changed.  I  was  conscious  of  it, 
and  he  noticed  it  as  soon  as  I  joined  him  at  the 
appointed  hour. 

"  '  Why,  Annette,'  said  he,  '  getting  ready  has 
cured  you.  We  may  as  well  stay  at  home,  now.' 

"  That  will  do,  Kate.  The  rest  of  the  story  will 
sound  sentimental  to  a  third  party." 

"  No,  no,  Annette !  that  would  be  leaving  out  the 
very  cream  of  it.  Tell  me  how  you  settled  it." 


THE   FIRST   CROSS   WORD.  45 

"  Well,  we  rode  on,  enjoying  the  change,  until 
towards  dark.  Baby  then  fell  asleep.  It  was  a 
very  quiet  hour,  —  everything  about  us  was  beauti 
ful  and  serene.  I  felt  deeply,  and  I  longed  to  have 
all  in  my  heart  pure  and  peaceful.  Tears  of  real 
penitence  came  into  my  eyes,  and  before  I  knew  it 
they  were  dropping  down  upon  the  baby.  My  hus 
band  turned  and  saw  them. 

"  '  Why,  Annette,'  said  he,  with  the  utmost  sur 
prise,  '  what  is  the  matter  ? ' 

" '  0,  I  am  so  sorry ! '  said  I. 

"  '  Sorry  for  what,  love,'  said  he?  '  Are  you  not 
happy  ?  Does  anything  trouble  you  ?  ' 

"'  I  am  so  sorry,'  said  I,  '  that  I  have  been  so 
ugly,  this  week  ! ' 

"  '  What  do  you  mean  ? '  said  he,  looking  more 
and  more  puzzled. 

"  '  How  can  you  help  knowing  ?  '  said  I.  Then  I 
began  at  the  beginning,  and  told  the  whole  story. 
How  I  rose  feeling  irritable,  and  was  provoked  to 
speak  the  first  cross  word ;  how  he  told  me  my 
things  were  not  as  nice  as  his  mother's,  and  went 
off  vexed ;  then  how  he  got  over  it,  and  forgot  all 
about  it,  and  would  not  help  me  to  feel  good-natured 
by  saying  he  was  sorry.  How  I  had  brooded  over 
it  all  the  week,  —  how  it  had  festered  away  in  my 
heart,  and  poisoned  all  my  enjoyment.  What  tor 
rents  of  tears  I  had  shed  when  alone,  as  I  thought 


46  THE   FIRST   CROSS   WORD. 

it  was  all  over  with  us,  and  we  never  should  love 
again  as  we  had  once  loved. 

"  He  heard  me  through  without  making  a  single 
remark,  and  then  he  burst  into  a  loud  laugh.  '  I 
want  to  know,  Annette,'  said  he,  '  if  this  is  what 
has  ailed  you,  all  this  week  ?  ' 

"  '  Yes,'  said  I.  Upon  this,  he  checked  our  Dob 
bin,  and  began  to  turn  round. 

"  '  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  '  said  I. 

"  '  Going  back,'  said  he,  '  if  this  is  all  that  is  the 
matter  with  you." 

"  I  laughed  as  heartily  as  he  did ;  for,  now  my  sin 
was  confessed,  I  felt  very  happy ;  but  I  pulled  the 
other  rein  and  drew  the  whip-lash  over  Dobbin's 
ears,  and  away  he  went  like  a  bird  towards  my 
mother's  home. 

"  But  we  made  a  resolution,  then,  Kate,  that  if 
either  had  aught  against  the  other,  it  should  be  set 
tled  before  the  sun  went  down ;  that  we  might  go 
to  sleep,  if  not  at  '  peace  with  all  the  world,'  at 
least  at  peace  with  each  other,  forgiving  and  for 
given.  This  resolution  we  have  faithfully  kept, 
and  I  have  never  seen  another  week  of  such  misery 
as  I  have  been  telling  you  about,  and  I  trust  I 
never  shall.  I  hope  you  will  find  in  your  new 
relations,  Kate,  all  the  enjoyment  we  now  do.  This 
is  the  best  wish  I  can  offer  you,  —  and  that  your 
first  cross  word  may  also  be  your  last." 


THE  OLD  LEATHER  PORTFOLIO: 

OR, 

A  HOUSE-CLEANING. 

"  DON'T  sew  any  longer,  Mrs.  St.  John ;  it  is  too 
dark." 

"  I  can  see  very  well,  Mr.  St.  John,  and  I  must 
finish  my  stint." 

"  Why,  what  is  the  hurry  ?  " 

"  My  sewing  must  be  done  this  week,  for  next 
week  is  house-cleaning;  and  here  it  is  Thursday 
night,  and  I  am  not  half  through.  —  Where  is  my 
spool  ?  There,  now,  it  is  lost !  That  is  too  bad.  It 
is  always  the  way  when  I  am  in  a  hurry.  Edward, 
do  help  me  find  the  spool." 

Edward,  the  eldest  child,  came  readily  to  his 
mother's  assistance.  Chairs  were  moved,  cushions 
shaken,  crickets  upset,  but  no  spool  could  he  find. 
The  light  was  fast  fading  away,  and  Mrs.  St.  John 
was  getting  nervous. 

"Dear  me,"  sighed  she,  "  how  unfortunate !  See 
if  the  baby  has  not  got  it.  Where  is  he  ?  —  he  was 
here  a  minute  ago." 


48  THE   OLD    LEATHER   PORTFOLIO. 

No  one  could  tell.  "  Do  look,"  said  Mrs.  St. 
John,  in  alarm ;  "  perhaps  he  has  crept  into  the 
entry  ;  he  will  fall  down  stairs." 

There  was  a  general  rush  for  the  entry,  but  there 
was  no  baby  there. 

"  I  've  found  him  !  "  shouted  Mary,  the  eldest  girl, 
with  a  loud,  merry  laugh,  which  was  strangely  out 
of  harmony  with  Mrs.  St.  John's  tune.  "  Come 
here,  mother,  come  quick !  " 

There  was  a  rush  to  the  parlor  again,  and  there, 
behind  the  sofa,  sat  the  baby,  in  a  corner,  entangled 
in  a  very  large  net  of  his  own  spinning  —  head, 
neck,  arms,  hands  and  feet,  tied  up  again  and  again, 
crossed  and  recrossed  by  thread  from  the  missing 
spool.  He  seemed  to  be  just  about  completing  his 
novel  design  to  his  own  satisfaction,  and  a  hearty 
laugh  from  all  the  family,  the  mother  alone  excepted, 
announced  his  victory.  Beginning,  however,  to  find 
himself  uncomfortably  imprisoned,  he  looked  up  with 
a  half-frightened  expression  on  his  baby  face,  which 
was  very  comical.  Mrs.  St.  John  had  no  time  to 
smile  at  it,  for  the  light  was  still  fading,  and  her 
stint  was  undone.  She  broke  off  a  needleful  of  the 
thread,  and  returned  to  the  window.  Her  face  was 
about  as  glum  as  the  twilight.  Stitch  —  stitch  — 
stitch  —  went  her  fingers,  now  somewhat  nervously 
fast. 

Edward  and  Mary  tried  to  unwind  the  baby,  but 


OR,  A   HOUSE-CLEANING.  49 

found  it  no  easy  task.  They  pulled  the  threads  too 
tightly  over  his  tender  flesh ;  he  did  not  like  the 
operation,  and  cried  lustily. 

"  Do,  Mr.  St.  John,  get  that  baby  out !  —  the 
children  hurt  him." 

Mr.  St.  John  took  hold,  but  with  no  better  suc 
cess. 

"  I  cannot  do  it,  wife  ;  you  must  come." 

"  Then  ring  for  Hannah." 

So  Hannah  came  and  tried,  but  the  baby  screamed 
louder  than  ever.  The  joke  was  becoming  rather  a 
serious  one,  and  both  father  and  children  were  a  trifle 
nervous ;  but  still  Mrs.  St.  John  stitched  away  at 
the  window. 

"Do,  Mrs. .St.  John,  put  that  work  down,"  said 
her  husband ;  "  it  is  too  dark  to  sew."  He  spoke, 
now,  quite  in  earnest. 

"  Only  a  few  stitches  more,"  replied  his  lady. 

Mr.  St.  John  was  a  very  decided  man.  He  put 
the  baby  down,  walked  across  the  room,  took  the 
work  out  of  his  wife's  hands,  and  tossed  it  into  a 
sideboard  drawer. 

"  You  shall  not  be  so  foolish,"  said  he ;  "  your 
eyes  will  feel  it  for  a  week,  and  there  is  no  manner 
of  need  of  such  a  hurry." 

Mrs.  St.  John's  dark  eye  kindled  for  a  moment, 
and  her  cheek  flushed ;  but  her  children  were  by, 
and  she  remained  silent. 
5 


50  THE    OLD    LEATHER   PORTFOLIO  : 

"  Come  and  help  us  to  get  the  baby  out,  —  do, 
Mrs.  St.  John,"  said  her  husband,  in  a  pleasant,  per 
suasive  tone. 

She  complied,  still  silent.  Baby  was  released,  and 
dismissed,  with  Hannah,  for  the  night.  Edward  and 
Mary  hung  about  listlessly  a  short  time  longer,  and 
then,  after  receiving  from  Mrs.  St.  John  a  doleful 
"  good-night,"  retired,  and  she  remained  looking 
into  the  fire,  silent  still.  Mr.  St.  John  read  the 
Traveller,  laughed  at  its  jokes  by  way  of  winding 
off,  then  laying  it  by,  was  quite  ready  for  a  social 
chat  ^vith  his  wife.  There  she  still  sat  —  glum  — 
mum  —  looking  into  the, fire. 

"  Come  will',"  said  he,  "  don 't  be  so  disconsolate ; 
what  is  the  matter  ? " 

"Nothing,"  said  she,  with  a  sigh. 

"  Nothing  !  well,  I  would  not  look  so  blue  about 
nothing." 

"  I  do  not  like  it  very  well  that  you  took  'my 
work  away  from  me." 

"  You  are  so  careless  about  your  eyes,  wife,  that 
I  have  to  look  after  you.  You  drive  yourself  almost 
to  death,  when  you  have  anything  to  do.  I  cannot 
teach  you  moderation  in  any  other  way.  Come, 
cheer  up.  You  shall  have  your  work,  now  there  are 
lights ;  I  will  get  it  for  you." 

"  No,  I  do  not  wish  it." 

"  Well,  what  is  the  matter,  then  ?  " 


OR,  A  HOUSE-CLEANING.  51 

"  Why,  I  have  so  much  to  do  to  get  ready  for 
house-cleaning,  that  it  seems  as  if  I  never  should 
live  through  it." 

"  Now,  I  will  tell  you  what  it  is,"  said  Mr.  St. 
John,  "  I  am  going  to  have  my  way  about  house- 
cleaning  this  year.  I  am  determined  not  to  have 
you  worried  by  it  as  you  generally  are.  I  intend  to 
hire  it  all  done  in  three  days." 

"  Dear  me  ! "  said  Mrs.  St.  John,  "  nothing 
would  worry  me  more." 

"  Why  so  ?  " 

"  For  two  reasons ;  because  we  cannot  afford  it, 
and  because  I  hate  new  servants." 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  St.  John,  "  I  am  convinced 
that  it  is  the  least  of  two  evils ;  and,  furthermore, 
I  mean  to  send  in  a  sewing-woman  to-morrow,  to 
relieve  your  present  burden." 

"  Pray  do  not,"  said  Mrs.  St.  John ;  "  we  ought  not 
to  be  at  the  expense  of  such  an  arrangement.  If  we 
hire  two  great  girls  the  year  round,  I  feel  as  if  we 
ought  to  meet  these  extras  among  ourselves.  I 
shall  get  along,  if  you  will  only  let  me  take  my  own 
course." 

"  1  will  agree  to  it,  on  one  condition  only,"  said 
Mr.  St.  John.  "  If  you  will  take  it  easy  and  keep 
happy,  you  shall  manage  it  your  own  way  ;  but  if 
you  cannot,  I  shall  try  my  way.  Come,  now ! 
Cheer  up,  —  do,  wife.  Let  me  see  you  smile." 


52  THE   OLD   LEATHER    PORTFOLIO  ' 

"  I  do  not  feel  like  it,"  said  Mrs.  St.  John,  at  the 
same  time  smiling,  in  spite  of  herself. 

"  How  funny  Bub  looked,  all  tied  up  in  your 
thread  !  "  said  Mr.  St.  John,  laughing  again  heartily. 

"  The  little  rogue  !  "  replied  the  mother,  laugh 
ing  now  in  her  turn.  She  had  emerged  from  her 
cloud ;  for  over  the  huge  mountain  of  house-clean 
ing,  still  before  her,  easy  paths  were  opening,  and 
a  cheerful,  quiet  spirit,  a  trusty  guide,  beckoned 
her  thither. 

"  Ring  the  up-stairs  bell,  husband,  will  you  ?"  said 
Mrs.  St.  John.  "  It  is  morning,  and  we  must  all  be 
up  bright  and  early ;  we  begin  house-cleaning  to 
day." 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  said  Mr.  St.  John,  whose 
morning  dreams  were  thus  unceremoniously  put  to 
flight,  "  it  seems  to  me  there  is  no  need  of  being 
in  such  a  hurry." 

"  One  hour  in  the  morning  is  worth  two  at  night," 
replied  she  ;  "  I  will  call  Hannah  myself." 

She  stepped  softly  into  the  nursery,  roused  the 
sleepy  girl,  cautioning  her  not  to  wake  the  children. 

Then  came  hurrying  here  and  bustling  there ; 
the  rattling  of  coal  and  the  clatter  of  dishes.  The 
early  breakfast  was  getting  on  as  well  as  could  be 
expected.  In  the  midst  of  this,  a  corps  of  young 
volunteers,  fresh  from  the  nursery,  all  in  bed-gown 


OR,   A   HOUSE-CLEANING.  53 

uniform,  came  down  over  stairs  and  balustrades,  to 
witness  the  muster.  Hannah,  then,  must  be  dis 
missed  to  make  them  presentable,  and  Mrs.  St.  John 
must  take  her  place.  In  an  incredibly  short  time, 
the  breakfast-bell  rang,  and  the  family  assembled  at 
this  unusual  hour.  Mrs.  St.  John  looked  very  reso 
lute.  She  was  an  energetic  woman ;  she  always 
meant  to  carry  an  enterprise  through,  when  she  un 
dertook  it.  They  had  got  an  early  start,  as  Mr. 
St.  John  could  testify,  —  quite  too  early  for  his 
appetite.  He  ate  nothing,  and  looked  sleepy. 

"  I  mean  to  make  thorough  work,  this  spring," 
said  the  lady,  breaking  the  silence ;  "  the  house 
has  not  been  cleaned  to  my  mind  since  we  moved 
into  it." 

"  But  why  do  you  drive  all  before  you  so,  Mrs. 
St.  John  ? " 

"0,  there 's  no  other  way  to  accomplish  any 
thing." 

"  Just  remember  our  agreement,  will  you  ?  "  said 
he.  "  If  I  find  you  getting  worried  over  it,  I  will 
have  in  cleaners,  if  they  are  to  be  found  in  the  city." 

"  Yes,  I  will  remember,"  said  she. 

The  family  had  breakfasted.  "  I  think  we  will 
let  the  girls  come  in  here  and  eat,"  said  Mrs.  St. 
John  ;  "  it  will  save  time." 

"  Where  shall  we  have  prayers,  then  ?  " 

"  0,  yes,  prayers,  —  well,  in  the  parlor." 
5* 


54  TUB   OLD    LEATHER    PORTFOLIO  : 

"  There  is  no  fire  there,"  said  Edward. 

"  Never  mind — it  is  not  cold,"  replied  his  mother. 
The  family  adjourned  to  the  parlor. 

"  It  is  too  cold  here  for  the  children,"  said  Mr. 
St.  John ;  "  Jane  will  take  cold." 

"  You  had  better  omit  reading,  then,"  said  his 
wife. 

The  reading  was  omitted.  Mrs.  St.  John  tried 
to  listen  to  the  prayer ;  but  no,  she  was  wondering 
whether  the  water  was  getting  hot,  and  where  she 
could  have  put  away  that  piece  of  wash-leather.  She 
rose  from  her  knees.  The  golden  opportunity  of 
prayer  had  fled.  To  her  restless  and  care-laden 
spirit  no  strength  and  comfort  had  been  imparted, 
for  none  had  been  asked. 

"  Come,  Mary,"  said  Edward,  "  let  us  go  to 
play." 

"  You  cannot  go  out,  this  morning,  until  school- 
time,"  said  their  mother.  "  I  want  you  to  stay  in, 
this  morning,  and  look  after  Jane  and  George." 

Mary  began  to  cry  at  this.  Bridget,  with  pail  in 
hand,  entered  at  one  door,  as  Hannah,  with  the 
baby,  opened  the  other.  Mr.  St.  John  seized  his 
hat,  and  hastily  beat  a  retreat. 

When  the  nursery  arrangements  were  completed, 
house-cleaning  commenced  in  earnest.  In  the  attic, 
Bridget  worked  here,  Hannah  there,  and  Mrs.  St. 
John  set  herself  down  before  a  pile  of  rubbish. 


OR,    A    HOUSE-CLEANING.  55 

Here  was  any  quantity  of  cast-off  clothing ;  "  she 
would  have  it  no  longer  breeding  moths  ;  it  should 
be  given  to  whoever  would  take  it."  There  were 
broken  chairs  and  rickety  tables,  waiting  for  a 
mending-day,  which  never  had  and  never  would 
come ;  they  should  be  split  up  for  kindlings.  Old 
crockery  wearing  away  a  useless  existence  in  vain 
hopes  of  aid  from  a  little  cement ;  old  boots  and 
shoes,  ends  of  stove-pipes,  useless  fire-boards,  boxes, 
looking-glass  frames,  —  what  a  medley!  Vigorous 
Mrs.  St.  John  determined  that  she  would  tolerate 
it  no  longer.  Her  aides-de-camp,  Bridget  and 
Hannah,  were  summoned,  and  a  vigorous  assault 
was  commenced. 

In  the  midst  of  the  melee,  pleasant  young  voices 
were  heard  calling  from  the  nursery-door,  "  Mother, 
mother,  i't  is  time  for  us  to  go  to  school  now." 

"  Could  it  be  nine  o'clock  ?  was  it  possible  ?  where 
had  the  morning  gone  ? "  But  it  had  gone.  Mrs. 
St.  John  must  now  take  her  turn  in  the  nursery ;  so, 
giving  line  upon  line  to  the  girls,  she  at  length 
went  down. 

To  sit  there  quietly  building  block-houses  for  her 
baby,  when  her  attic  was  in  such  a  state,  was  a  trial 
which  Mrs.  St.  John's  patience  would  not  bear  ;  so 
she  wrapped  him  in  a  shawl,  and  made  frequent  ex 
cursions,  with  him  in  her  arms,  up  two  flights  of 
?tairs,  to  see  how  matters  were  advancing.  This 


56        THE  OLD  LEATHER  PORTFOLIO  : 

was  hard  work  for  her,  and  she  was  rejoiced  when 
the  time  came  for  his  nap.  She  sung  away  to  him, 
but  he  was  not  used  to  her  tunes  ;  it  was  Hannah's 
music  which  lulled  him  every  day,  and  he  did  not 
fancy  this  change  in  his  arrangements.  He  had 
none  but  waking  associations  with  his  mother ;  so  he 
cried.  This  wearied  and  worried  her,  but  still  she 
sung  heroically,  for  Hannah  could  not  be  called  down 
from  her  work,  and  then  she  told  the  boy  firmly 
that  he  must  go  to  sleep.  Finally,  when  he  could 
cry  no  longer,  he  obeyed  her.  She  felt  as  if  it  were 
a  great  victory.  Fearing  to  arouse  him  if  she  moved 
his  crib  nearer  the  bed,  she  contented  herself  with 
gently  tucking  him  in,  and  then  stole  out,  and 
returned  to  the  attic. 

Great  improvement  had  taken  place  there  ;  the 
rubbish  had  nearly  disappeared.  Mrs.  St.  John, 
elated  by  success,  went  cheerfully  to  work,  with 
tobacco  and  camphor,  on  what  remained.  All  was 
going  on  swimmingly,  when  suddenly  a  loud  cry 
came  up  from  the  nursery,  —  no  common  cry,  —  it 
was  the  cry  of  suffering.  To  drop  everything  and 
run,  was  but  the  work  of  an  instant.  The  mother 
was  first  there,  and  found  the  baby  lying  on  the 
floor.  He  had  fallen  out  of  his  crib,  cut  his  lip, 
which  was  bleeding,  and  bruised  his  forehead.  This 
was  sad  enough  to  Mrs.  St.  John  ;  for,  if  there  was 
any  one  class  of  accidents  which  she  dreaded  more 


OR,    A   HOUSE-CLEANING.  57 

than  another  for  children,  it  was  injuries  to  the 
head.  She  reproached  herself  for  having  left  the 
child  ;  she  wished  she  had  no  house  to  clean  ;  she 
almost  determined  not  to  try  to  do  any  more,  for 
she  was  both  agitated  and  alarmed.  The  baby  was 
soothed  and  quieted  before  she  was,  and  he  soon  fell 
asleep  again.  The  mother's  agitation  subsided,  but 
not  her  fears ;  for  she  was  in  doubt  whether  she 
ought  to  let  him  sleep  or  not.  She  laid  him,  this 
time,  in  his  cradle,  and  sat  by  him,  gently  bathing 
his  forehead  in  cold  water.  Gloomy  fancies  crowded 
upon  her  excited  mind.  She  wept  over  the  child,  as 
over  one  dead.  In  a  moment  of  time,  life  had  turned 
its  serious  side  towards  her ;  she  felt  humbled  and 
ashamed  as  she  remembered  what  insignificant  things 
had  been  fretting  her  spirit.  What  was  her  house- 
cleaning,  that  it  should  absorb  her  quite,  to  the  neg 
lect  of  her  family  ?  But  it  must  be  done,  and  she 
must  do  it.  How  could  she,  then,  keep  a  quiet 
spirit  in  the  midst  of  such  contending  cares  ?  She 
began  to  reproach  herself  for  her  neglect  of  prayer, 
this  busy  morning.  Had  she  prayed,  she  might 
have  felt  calmer,  when  called  to  meet  untoward 
events.  But  then,  again,  she  might  not.  Her 
house-cleaning  now  must  be  done;  so  she  resolved 
to  prosecute  it  vigorously,  finish  it  as  quickly  as  pos 
sible,  and  to  set  a  seal  upon  her  lips,  through  the 
whole  operation,  that  no  impatient  expression  should 


58        TUB  OLD  LEATHER  PORTFOLIO  : 

escape.  She  hoped  this  would  compose  her  spirit ; 
and,  if  more  composed,  she  could  go  better  through 
what  was  before  her.  But,  come  what  might,  the 
baby  was  not  to  be  again  neglected,  and  she  resolved 
to  keep  Edward  and  Mary  at  home,  alternately,  to 
look  after  him. 

When  she  joined  her  family  at  dinner,  her  coun 
tenance  betrayed  the  harassed  state  of  her  mind. 
Mr.  St.  John  instantly  observed  it. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Why,  the  baby  has  tumbled  out  of  his  crib,  and 
almost  killed  himself." 

Mr.  St.  John  only  laughed.  "  The  blow  fell  on 
the  right  place,"  he  said ;  "  for  the  skull  was  thick  in 
front,  and  the  child,  very  likely,  would  have  forty 
more  just  such  tumbles  before  the  house  was  cleaned ; 
so  she  had  better  make  up  her  mind  not  to  be  trou 
bled  about  that." 

Mr.  St.  John  had  a  pleasant  way  of  helping  his 
wife  over  her  troubles.  He  gave  her  cheerful  and 
encouraging  words  ;  paid  her  kind  and  considerate 
attentions ;  and,  above  all,  was  patient  with  her. 
Was  she  depressed,  worried,  overburdened  with  care, 
there  was  Mr.  St.  John  never  in  finer  spirits,  mak 
ing  her  laugh  in  spite  of  herself,  turning  out  the 
"  silver  lining  "  of  all  her  clouds,  parrying  off  impa 
tient  shots,  and  never  getting  wounded.  Thus 
assisted,  the  wife  soon  found  her  way  into  stiller 
waters. 


OR,    A    HOUSE-CLEANING.  59 

Then  perchance  it  came  the  husband's  turn.  Busi 
ness  went  wrong ;  his  partner  was  unfaithful ;  he 
met  with  losses,  and  his  brow  was  clouded.  What 
a  comfort  then  was  his  wife,  who,  grateful  for  what 
she  had  received,  hastened  to  let  down  her  pitcher 
into  the  well  of  Hope,  and  bade  him  drink  the  cheer 
ful  draught !  Husband  and  wife  thus  helped  each 
other  over  life's  rougher  places,  and  made  their  jour 
ney  easier. 

After  dinner,  Hannah  brought  down  the  baby. 
A  piece  of  brown  paper  disfigured  his  fair  brow,  but 
he  was  bright  as  a  new  dollar.  Mr.  St.  John  con 
cluded  that  it  was  not  best  to  send  for  the  physician 
this  time ;  they  would  keep  that  in  reserve  for  the 
more  serious  bumps  yet  to  come.  His  wife's  spirits 
revived,  and  she  arranged  her  nursery  tactics,  for 
the  last  part  of  the  day,  more  to  her  satisfaction. 
Edward  was  to  remain  at  home. 

"Where  shall  we  work  this  afternoon?"  said 
Bridget. 

"  Finish  the  attic,"  said  Mrs.  St.  John. 

"We  are  all  done  there,  ma'am,  but  the  eaves." 

"  We  will  go  to  the  eaves,  then  ;  for  I  intend  to 
make  thorough  work,  now  I  am  about  it.  You  take 
a  lantern,  and  I  will  go  up  with  you,  while  Hannah 
clears  away." 

The  eaves  of  Mrs.  St.  John's  house  had  been 
partitioned  off  expressly,  it  would  seem,  to  catch 
rubbish.  Small  doors  opened  into  these  dark  holes. 


60  TilE   OLD    LEATHER   PORTFOLIO  : 

"  Take  your  light,  Bridget,  and  creep  in  ;  let  us 
see  what  there  is  there." 

Bridget  hesitated.  "  Why,  the  land,  Mrs.  St. 
John,  there  '11  be  mouses  there,  and  no  cretur  livin' 
is  so  'fraid  of  mouses  as  I  am." 

"  Nonsense !  there  are  no  mice  there ;  there  is 
nothing  for  them  to  eat." 

Bridget  advanced  timidly.  There  seemed  to  be 
nothing  but  boards  and  shingles  there,  until,  quite 
at  the  extremity,  the  light  of  her  lantern  fell  upon 
an  old  box. 

"  Anything  in  it  ?"  said  Mrs.  St.  John. 

"  Yes,  ma'am  ;  it  is  full  of  something." 

"Push  it  along,  then." 

It  was  pushed  out  into  the  attic,  and  left  there 
until  the  eaves  had  been  put  in  order,  according  to 
Mrs.  St.  John's  notions.  This  accomplished,  she 
proceeded  to  examine  it.  The  board  cover  was 
easily  forced  off,  and  the  box  appeared  full  of  old 
pamphlets  and  papers,  stained  and  mouldy  ;  dating 
back  to  a  period  previous  to  the  Revolution,  and 
running  on  For  almost  half  a  century.  There  were 
sermons,  almanacs,  dictionaries,  dog-eared  spelling- 
books,  and  finally,  at  the  bottom  of  all,  an  old 
leather  portfolio.  To  all  appearance,  it  had  once 
been  handsome,  for  dim  traces  of  crimson  and  gold 
were  yet  visible,  though  it  was  now  mouldy  and 
worm-eaten. 


OR,    A   HOUSE-CLEANING.  61 

It  was  fastened,  hut  a  little  pull  tore  the  lock 
from  the  rotten  leather.  Mrs.  St.  John  opened  it 
eagerly.  What  treasure  was  there  hidden  here  ? 
No  treasure,  apparently  ;  some  common  engravings, 
old  writing-books,  and  sheets  of  paper  covered  with 
a  child's  drawings.  A  little  inner  pocket  now 
arrested  her  attention. 

This  was  found  to  contain  musty  letters,  seeming 
to  be  merely  family  letters.  There  still  remained  a 
drawer,  at  the  bottom  of  the  portfolio,  to  be  exam 
ined.  This  required  some  prying  before  it  was 
forced  out.  It  had  been  intended,  originally,  to 
hold  a  writing  apparatus,  but  all  its  compartments 
were  now  stuifed  with  MSS.  The  name  of  Brad 
ford,  —  Samuel,  John,  or  Eliza,  or  Sarah,  —  had 
been  found,  thus  far  on  almost  everything ;  but  the 
contents  of  the  drawer  seemed  to  belong  exclusively 
to  one,  a  Mrs.  Nancy  Bradford,  and  appeared  to  be 
her  private  journal. 

Mrs.  St.  John  wished  very  much  to  look  over  these 
papers,  but  Bridget  and  Hannah,  both  waiting  for 
work,  forbade  it ;  so  she  replaced  the  papers  in  the 
portfolio,  and  sent  it  to  her  dressing-room,  meaning 
to  read  them  at  her  leisure. 

This  discovery  tended  to  strengthen  her  resolution 
to  make  thorough  work,  for  once ;  and,  as  the  baby 
was  good  and  Edward  faithful,  she  had  the  after 
noon  quite  undisturbed.  Still,  the  western  light 
6 


62  THE   OLD   LEATHER   PORTFOLIO  : 

had  almost  died  out  from  that  attic  window  before 
her  work  was  done ;  then,  weary  enough,  but  with 
her  sky-parlor  in  fine  order,  she  went  to  tea. 

She  told  Mr.  St.  John  of  her  discovery,  and  the 
interest  which  this  excited  tended  to  divert  his 
attention  from  her ;  so  he  did  not  observe  that 
already,  on  this,  her  first  day  of  house-cleaning, 
she  had  so  over-worked  herself  that  she  could  not 
eat.  Had  he  seen  it,  Hale  and  Putt  would  have 
made  their  appearance  the  next  morning. 

But  he  thought  it  was  curious  about  that  box. 
It  must  have  been  left  by  some  one  who  had  pre 
viously  occupied  the  house.  Could  they  discover 
the  owner  ? 

Mrs.  St.  John  thought  not,  as  it  had  been  for  so 
many  years  used  as  a  boarding-house. 

"  Some  one  will  be  sorry  to  lose  it.  It  is  proba 
bly  all  that  remains  of  some  old  family,  who,  for 
aught  we  know,  were  an  influential  family  in  Revo 
lutionary  times.  Perhaps  it  is  all  their  present 
descendants  have  to  show  that  they  had  a  grand 
mother." 

"  If  they  prized  it  much,  they  would  have  taken 
better  care  of  it,"  said  Mrs.  St.  John.  "  I  dare  say 
they  are  glad  to  get  rid  of  it,  for  there  is  nothing  in 
it  of  any  value,  it  seems." 

"  Nothing,  unless  Mrs.  Nancy  Bradford's  journal 
proves  to  be  valuable,"  said  Mr.  St.  John. 


OR,    A   HOUSE-CLEANING.  63 

His  wife  did  not  seem  to  think  this  a  very  proba 
ble  hypothesis. 

Again  an  early  summons  roused  the  sleepy  in 
mates  of  Mrs.  St.  John's  dwelling ;  and  again  Mr. 
St.  John,  two-thirds  asleep,  came  down  uncom|la5n- 
ingly  to  an  early  breakfast ;  he  meant  to  do  the 
best  he  could  to  help  his  wife  along.  Again  came 
the  hour  of  morning  prayer,  and  Mrs.  St.  John,  as 
she  knelt,  remembered  now  with  gratitude  that  no 
midnight  cry  of  danger  and  distress  had  alarmed 
them,  that  they  had  lain  down  and  slept  in  peace. 
She  recalled,  also,  tKose  serious  moments,  on  the 
preceding  day,  when  life  had  seemed  so  frail  a  thing, 
the  concerns  of  time  so  trivial,  and  she  really  felt 
that  the  spirit  with  which  she  was  undertaking  her 
work  needed  purifying ;  yet  where  and  how  she 
could  not  determine,  for  she  had  an  indefinite  and 
unformed  impression  that  her  duty  to  God  and  her 
duty  to  her  family  could  not  tally  exactly,  at  least, 
until  house-cleaning  was  over,  —  that  what  she  had 
now  to  do  could  not  be  done  "  to  His  glory."  Such 
Christian  effort  must  be  reserved  until  her  house 
was  put  "  decently  in  order."  So  she  quieted  her 
half-satisfied  conscience  with  a  fresh  resolution  to 
guard  her  lips.  This  added  care  gave  a  serious 
expression  to  her  face,  which  the  children  observed, 
for  they  will  detect  every  change  in  a  mother's 
countenance. 


64  TIIE   OLD    LEATHER   PORTFOLIO 

"  What  makes  you  look  so  sober  to-day,  mother  ?  " 
said  Mary. 

"  I  have  so  much  before  me,  my  child." 

"  Shall  not  I  send  for  Hale  and  Putt  ?"  said  Mr. 
St.  John,  standing  with  the  door  half  open. 

"  By  no  means,"  said  Mrs.  St.  John ;  "they  would 
be  a  great  deal  more  plague  than  profit.  I  shall 
keep  Mary  at  home  this  morning  to  help  me,  and 
Edward  this  afternoon." 

"  I  doubt  whether  this  is  the  best  way,"  replied 
the  husband.  "  Will  they  not  run  behind  their 
classes  ?  " 

"  Not  if  they  study  their  lessons  at  home,  which 
I  mean  they  shall  do,"  said  his  wife.  "  I  can  hear 
them  recite." 

Mr.  St.  John  drew  down  his  face  with  a  comical 
expression,  and  took  his  leave. 

This  day's  work  proved  to  be  a  very  tedious  one. 
The  two  aids  were  to  commence  on  beds  and  bed 
ding,  and  the  lady  of  the  house  was  to  precede  their 
cleaning  by  putting  closets  and  drawers  in  order. 
This,  to  her,  was  the  most  perplexing  part  of  house- 
cleaning.  After  a  winter's  campaign,  so  much  would 
accumulate ;  and  now,  as  summer  was  advancing, 
there  was  such  a  medley  of  summer  and  winter 
clothing !  What  could  be  put  away,  and  what  must 
be  retained  ?  So  many  things,  too,  there  were,  too 
good  to  throw  away,  and  yet  not  quite  good  enough 


OR,    THE   HOUSE-CLEANING.  65 

to  keep  ;  much  that  might  be  worn,  and  yet  looked 
hardly  well  enough ;  much  that  might  be  made  over 
for  the  little  ones,  and  yet,  were  they  worth  the 
time  ? 

Once  she  thought,  in  her  perplexity,  she  would 
make  one  bundle  of  all  the  doubtful  articles,  and 
send  Hannah  out  to  give  them  to  the  first  poor  per 
son  she  met ;  then  she  remembered  that  their  income 
was  by  no  means  such  as  to  exempt  her  from  econo 
my.  She  must  make  what  she  had  go  as  far  as  it 
would  respectably  ;  then,  how  far  was  that  ?  Her 
mind  became  weary,  and  her  head  began  to  ache. 
She  sat  down  for  a  moment  on  a  trunk,  sighing 
and  wishing  the  job  was  done ;  then,  summoning 
her  resolution,  went  once  more  heroically  to  work. 
Now  she  opened  the  under  drawer ;  brimful  it  was 
of  perplexity.  Here  were  half- worn  shoes,  leaky 
rubbers,  old  stockings,  the  nursery  refuse  of  a  sea 
son.  This  was,  indeed,  discouraging,  and  Mrs.  St. 
John  was  irritated.  Hannah  ought  never  to  have 
stowed  away  things  in  that  style ;  she  had  half  a 
mind  to  dismiss  her,  and  try  a  new  hand,  and  see 
if  she  could  not  get  a  more  tidy  one.  She  sat  down 
again  on  the  old  black  trunk,  more  discouraged  than 
ever.  At  this  very  auspicious  moment,  Bridget 
burst  into  the  room. 

"  The  land !  Mrs.  St.  John,  you  never  see  sich  a 
sight ! " 


66  THE   OLD   LEATHER   PORTFOLIO  : 

"  What  is  the  matter  now  ?"  said  Mrs.  St.  John, 
trembling  with  vague  apprehensions. 

"  0,  the  beds  !  —  such  a  sight  to  behold  ! " 

"What  of  them?" 

"  All  alive,  Mrs.  St.  John,"  .  said  Hannah,  who 
now  appeared  in  the  background,  looking  as  if  she 
had  met  the  cholera. 

It  required  all  of  even  resolute  Mrs.  St.  John's 
resolution  to  rise  and  follow  her  girls  with  the  seal 
still  upon  her  lips.  She  found  they  had  brought  a 
true  report  of  the  land.  Now,  of  all  the  conditions 
of  a  five  years'  rented  house,  none  could  have  been 
more  annoying  to  our  lady  than  this.  With  such 
partners  she  would  not  have  accepted  of  one  in 
Beacon-street  or  Broadway. 

Was  it  not  a  little  singular  that  when  she  had  so 
much  to  do,  and  was  trying  to  do  it  in  the  best  way 
she  could,  just  those  things  should  come  upon  her 
which  would  trouble  her  the  most  ?  She  did  not 
understand  it ;  it  was  pressing  her  without  mercy, 
and  her  ill-temper  rose,  with  a  sense  of  injustice. 

"  This  is  enough  to  kill  anybody !  "  said  she,  with 
flashing  eyes.  "  I  will  not  live  so !  I  '11  move  off. 
Take  those  down  into  the  yard,  and  set  fire  to 
them  ! " 

"  No,  Mrs.  St.  John,"  said  Hannah,  "that  '11  never 
do.  We  should  have  all  the  engines  here,  in  less 
than  no  time." 


OH,    A    HOUSE-CLEANING.  67 

"  Carry  them  down,  then,  and  leave  them  there 
until  Mr.  St.  John  comes  home,"  said  she,  impera 
tively  ;  "  and  do  you  bring  up  water  boiling  hot  and 
pour  in  every  crack.  I  '11  have  all  the  paper  off  the 
walls." 

"Take  hold  there,  Hannah,"  said  Bridget;  "don't 
be  so  afraid  of  lifting  a  finger  !  " 

The  aids  were  catching  the  commander's  tone. 
Mrs.  St.  John  thought  it  prudent  to  retreat.  She 
went  to  her  own  room,  locked  herself  in,  sat  down, 
and  cried  like  a  child.  Two  opposing  currents  of 
feeling  set  in,  whirling  her  round.  Her  troubles 
were  worrying,  irritating,  and  making  her  indig 
nant  ;  —  conscience  was  making  her  ashamed,  and 
humbling  her.  She  shed  bitter  tears  in  view  of  her 
own  character ;  now  and  then  it  seemed  to  her  as 
if  life  did  not  pay  for  the  struggle  it  cost.  But 
now  her  tears  must  cease  to  flow,  for  there  is  Mary's 
gentle  voice.  "  Mother,  George  is  so  cross,  I  cannot 
stay  with  him  any  longer."  Mother,  then,  must  go 
to  him. 

Her  eyes  were  still  red  from  weeping,  and  her 
heart  was  heavy,  when  Mr.  St.  John  came  in  to  tea. 
These  were  symptoms  which  he  had  been  expecting; 
so  he  could  not  refrain  from  smiling,  as  he  inquired, 
"  What  has  turned  up  now  ?  " 

Mrs.  St.  John  told  him  of  Bridget's  discovery. 
As  she  went  on  to  relate  it,  her  temper  warmed 


68  THE   OLD    LEATHER   PORTFOLIO  : 

again.  "  It  is  just  what  I  expected,  coming  intr 
such  an  old  boarding-house ! "  said  she ;  "  I  told  you 
so,  then." 

"  No,  wife,  you  forget.  It  was  your  choice  to 
come  here ;  do  not  you  remember  ?  I  wished  to  take 
that  new  house  in  Suffolk-street ;  I  '11  take  it  now, 
if  you  say  so." 

Mrs.  St.  John  knew  that  the  rent  of  that  desira 
ble  house  exceeded  their  means.  She  knew,  also, 
that  her  husband  was  always  for  going  the  whole 
length  of  his  string  ;  and  that,  if  prudence  and  econ 
omy  were  ever  practised,  —  and  both  were  neces 
sary, — she  must  practise  them,  for  he  never  would; 
it  was  n't  in  him.  She,  therefore,  was  always  the 
one  to  hold  back,  and  it  was  this  which  kept  them 
up  so  comfortably. 

"  No,  we  cannot  afford  to  do  it,"  said  she ;  "  and 
I  am  sure  I  do  not  know  what  to  do.  We  cannot 
live  so." 

"  I  '11  burn  up  the  bedsteads,  if  you  say  so,  or  sell 
off  and  get  new  ones,"  said  her  husband. 

"  No,  we  ought  not  to  incur  even  that  expense." 

Mr.  St.  John  sat  down,  and  related,  in  a  most 
humorous  way,  his  college  experience  in  this  line. 
Mrs.  St.  John  had  to  laugh,  and  finally  their  plan 
of  operation  in  attacking  this  new  enemy  was  agreed 
upon.  Offensive  war  was  proclaimed;  no  quarter 


OR,    A   HOUSE-CLEANING.  69 

was  to  be  given  ;  the  hatchet  was  never  to  be  buried 
until  the  old  settlers  were  exterminated. 

On  the  fourth  day  of  this  memorable  house-clean 
ing  Master  George  began  to  assert  his  rights.  He 
would  not  stay  any  longer  either  with  Edward  or 
Mary,  and  Jane  could  scarcely  come  within  sight  of 
him.  Mrs.  St.  John  had  to  give  up  to  him.  With 
him  in  her  arms  she  now  attempted  to  do  the  lighter 
work,  —  washing  dishes,  cooking,  etc.  Tying  him 
into  a  high  chair,  she  began  to  prepare  a  simple 
dinner.  She  set  the  table  in  the  kitchen,  without 
cloth  or  napkins,  to  save  herself  trouble.  While  so 
doing,  the  door-bell  rang.  Edward  brought  her 
word  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wilson  were  in  the  parlor. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wilson  were  friends  from  out  of  town, 
who  came  to  the  city  frequently  in  the  spring  to 
shop,  always  making  their  home  with  her. 

"  I  cannot  have  company,"  said  she,  when  Edward 
announced  them  ;  "  there  is  nothing  to  eat  in  the 
house  ;  and,  besides,  I  am  not  dressed.  What  shall 
I  do  ?  It  does  seem  to  me  as  if  everything  came 
together.  I  shall  die  before  we  are  through  with 
it!" 

To  whom  are  you  talking,  Mrs.  St.  John  ?  Not 
to  those  children,  surely.  Mary  had  just  entered. 
See,  there  are  four  beaming  hazel  eyes  fixed  upon 
your  worried  face.  They  are  carrying  impressions 
to  those  young  hearts ;  impressions  which  you  can 


70  THE   OLD    LEATHER    PORTFOLIO  : 

more  easily  make  than  erase ;  impressions  which 
will  be  found  there  long  after  your  house  is  in  order; 
BO,  be  careful. 

"  Well,  shall  I  tell  them  to  go,  mother  ? "  said 
Edward. 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  St.  John,  struggling  to  be  calm. 
"  No,  that  will  not  do.  Ask  them  to  take  their 
things  off  and  sit  down.  Tell  them  I  am  house- 
cleaning,  and  engaged,  just  now,  but  will  be  up  in  a 
short  time." 

Mrs.  St.  John  went  on  mechanically  with  her 
simple  dinner,  for  she  did  not  know  what  else  to  do. 
Her  husband's  welcome  step  was  now  heard  on  the 
stairs  ;  he  came  directly  to  her. 

"  0,  Mr.  St.  John,"  said  she,  "  I  am  so  glad  to 
see  you !  What  shall  I  do  ?  —  We  have  company, 
and  here  we  are,  and  this  is  all  the  dinner  we  have 
in  the  house ;  George  is  cross,  and  it  seems  as  if  I 
should  give  up  !  " 

"  Never  mind,  wife,"  said  he.  "  The  darkest  day, 
live  till  to-morrow,  will  have  passed  away.  We  will 
ask  them  down  to  dine  just  as  we  are.  Here  is  meat 
enough  for  half  a  dozen  more.  They  know  all  about 
house-cleaning.  Now,  don't  take  an  extra  step.  I 
will  put  on  a  couple  more  plates.  Here,  Master 
George,  come  with  papa.  Edward,  if  you  will  keep 
him  happy  in  the  nursery  until  after  dinner,  you 
shall  go  out  to  Roxbury  with  me  this  evening. 


OR,    A    HOUSE-CLEANING.  71 

Wife,  slick  up  your  hair  a  little,  and  send  Mary  up 
to  call  me  when  you  are  ready,  and  I  will  bring 
them  down." 

"  How  considerate  he  is,  when  I  am  in  a  worry ! " 
said  Mrs.  St.  John  to  herself.  "  I  wonder  how 
he  can  be  so  patient.  I  will  try  now  to  do  my 
best." 

She  smoothed  her  hair,  put  on  a  clean  collar, 
added  a  luxury  or  two  to  her  table,  in  the  shape  of  a 
castor  and  salters,  etc. ;  and  then,  making  a  hearty 
effort  to  appear  cheerful,  met  her  friends,  and  wel 
comed  them  to  the  best  she  had.  And  they  had  a 
pleasant  time  of  it  at  dinner.  Mr.  St.  John  was  in 
fine  spirits ;  he  did  the  honors  from  stove,  dresser 
and  pantry,  gracefully  ;  and  Mrs.  St.  John  felt  con 
scious  that  she  was  doing  her  best  to  show  hospital 
ity  ;  and  the  friends  felt  that  they  were  adding  no 
trouble  ;  so  that  all  enjoyed  the  dinner. 

After  the  company  had  left,  however,  there  was 
a  reaction  in  Mrs.  St.  John's  spirits.  Jane  began 
to  cry  with  the  toothache,  and  George  was  ready 
with  his  chorus.  Bridget  was  getting  cross,  and 
Hannah  becoming  ominously  silent.  Mrs.  St.  John 
again  took  her  room  ;  she  began  to  feel  desperate ; 
she  had  half  a  mind  to  let  things  go.  What  was 
the  use  of  trying  any  longer,  when  everything 
opposed  her  ?  She  might  as  well  give  up  first  as 


72  THE   OLD   LEATHER    PORTFOLIO  : 

last.      In   this   mood   her   husband  found   her  at 
night. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  in  his  peremptory  manner  (and 
wo  have  seen  that  he  could  be  peremptory),  "  I  have 
set  my  foot  down,  that  I  will  not  have  things  go  on 
so  any  longer.  You  have  had  your  way,  —  now  I 
shall  have  my  way.  Hale  and  Putt  shall  come  to 
morrow." 

Mrs.  St.  John  knew  that  arguing  the  matter 
would  now  be  of  no  further  use. 
/  "You  gentlemen,"  said  she,  "  have  such  odd  ideas 
of  house-cleaning  !  You  imagine  you  can  do  it  up 
just  as  you  buy  and  sell,  —  so  much  labor  for  so  much 
money.  Now,  the  fact  is,  the  simple  labor  is  the 
easiest  part  of  it.  It  is  the  getting  ready  for  labor, 
—  contriving,  planning,  arranging,  —  that  is  so  wea 
risome.  \  Putting  this  carpet  here,  and  turning  that 
thereTaeciding  where  this  thing  had  better  go,  and 
what  must  be  done  with  that ;  —  this  is  what  makes 
house-cleaning  such  a  trial,  and  it  is  work  which 
you  cannot  hire." 

"Just  so,"  said  Mr.  St.  John ;  "and  if  you  do 
this  part  of  it,  you  do  your  share ;  but  now  you  are 
attempting  to  do,  not  only  the  head  work,  but  the 
hand  work  also.  Division  of  labor  is  as  proper  here 
as  in  my  store.  You  do  not  understand  business, 
you  see." 

"And  you  do  not  understand  house-cleaning." 


OK,    A    HOUSE-CLEANING.  73 

"  Well,  we  will  see,"  said  Mr.  St.  John,  laugh-, 
ing. 

With  the  morrow  came  Hale  and  Putt,  stout 
Irish  women,  whom  Mr.  St.  John  frequently  em 
ployed  about  his  store  ;  and  there  they  stood,  await 
ing  Mrs.  St.  John's  orders.  With  a  sigh  she  ushered 
them  into  the  dining-room.  They  might  clean  there 
in  the  early  part  of  the  morning  she  went  once  or 
twice  to  see  what  progress  they  made. 

"  Do  not  put  sand  upon  the  paint,"  said  she;  "you 
will  scour  it  all  off." 

"  0  yes,  indeed  ma'am,  we  knows  it,"  said  Putt. 
.  "  Be  careful  not  to  let  your  wet  cloth  touch  this 
light  paper." 

"  Indeed,  and  I  will  be  very  careful,  ma'am,"  said 
Hale. 

From  the  nursery  to  the  dining-room  was  a  long 
journey,  and  Mrs.  St.  John,  having  taken  cold,  found 
herself  too  stiff  and  lame  to  make  the  effort  more 
than  once  or  twice.  Jane  also  had  taken  cold,  and 
was  now  in  bed,  feverish  and  restless.  George 
remained  indisposed.  Mrs.  St.  John  had  about 
reached  that  state  of  feeling  in  which  she  did  not 
care  whether  the  house  were  cleaned  or  not.  She  no 
longer  had  any  mind  about  it,  —  she  was  heartily 
sick  of  it.  Yet  still,  with  contradictory  impulse,  she 
urged  on  the  work,  so  that  as  little  as  possible  need 
be  hired. 


74  THE   OLD    LEATHER    PORTFOLIO  : 

It  was  a  sorry  dinner  which  Mr.  St.  John  found 
waiting  for  him  that  day.  The  children  murmured, 
and  he,  after  partaking,  omitted  altogether  returning 
thanks. 

"  Are  not  you  most  through,  wife  ?  "  said  he. 

"  I  do  not  know  that  there  is  any  end,"  repLed 
she. 

"  How  do  my  cleaners  work  ?  " 

"I  have  not  been  in,  since  morning.  I  must  go 
and  look." 

Mrs.  St.  John  entered  the  dining-room.  All  up 
and  down  by  the  windows,  and  under  the  moulding, 
were  wide,  black  stains  of  dirty  suds.  How  it  looked 
on  that  light  paper  !  Around  the  door-handles  the 
paint  was  all  off,  and  the  polished  and  shining  boards 
attested  to  the  strength  of  the  scouring. 

She  looked  on  in  dismay.  "  Only  see  there  !  " 
said  she  ;  "  ten  dollars  will  not  repair  the  mischief 
your  cleaners  have  done.  I  told  you  so,  to  begin 
with.  Now,  Mr.  St.  John,  you  ought  to  let  me 
manage  these  things.  What  shall  I  do  ?  " 

"  Do  ?  why,  it  looks  nicely,  I  think,"  said  he ; 
"  it  smells  as  clean  as  a  whistle.  As  to  the  paper, 
I  meant  to  have  a  new  one  on  at  any  rate,  and  it  is 
as  well  now  as  any  time." 

"  What  shall  I  do  with  them,  this  afternoon  ?  " 

"Who,  Hale  and  Putt?  Put  them  into  the 
kitchen  and  cellar  ;  they  will  work  well  there." 


OR,    A   HOUSE-CLEANING.  75 

When  once  more  alone,  with7  four  cleaners  await 
ing  her  orders,  Mrs.  St.  John  felt  that  the  time  had 
come  when  she  must  either  sink  or  swim.  Summon 
ing  all  her  resolution,  she  once  more  breasted  the 
waves.  Much  progress  of  a  certain  kind  was  made 
this  day,  and  the  poor,  ransacked  tenement  began  to 
settle  down  a  little. 

"  Mrs.  St.  John,"  said  Bridget,  opening  the  door 
at  tea-time  ;  "  the  cleaners,  ma'am,  wants  to  know 
as  how  if  you  want  them  to  come  to-morrow." 

"  No,"  said  the  lady,  in  a  tone  not  remarkable  for 
its  gentleness. 

"  Had  not  they  better,  Mrs.  St.  John  ?  " 

"  No,  unless  you  have  a  particular  fancy  for  pa 
pering  more  rooms." 

Mr.  St.  John  laughed,  paid  Hale  and  Putt,  and 
dismissed  them. 

There  was  no  early  breakfast  on  the  following 
morning.  Mr.  St.  John  had  his  nap  out,  and  Mrs. 
St.  John,  at  a  late  hour,  dragged  herself  down  stairs. 
She  felt  miserably  ;  she  was  more  than  half  ill ;  she 
did  not  know  as  she  could  hold  her  head  up.  The 
breakfast  was  uninviting.  Bridget  was  getting  out  of 
sorts.  The  children  came  in,  fretting ;  Hannah  was 
cross,  and  "scrubbed  their  noses  off"  when  she  was 
washing  them.  No  one  in  the  house  seemed  to  feel 
just  right,  but  Mr.  St.  John.  All  undisturbed  as 
ever,  bright  side  up,  he  came  among  them,  singing. 


76  THE   OLD   LEATHER    PORTFOLIO  : 

"  Mother,"  said  Mary,  "  what  makes  you  look  so, 
this  morning  ?  You  don't  look  happy." 

"  I  don't  feel  well." 

"  But  you  have  looked  so  all  along,  mother,"  said 
Edward. 

"  Well,  I  have  had  a  great  deal  to  worry  me, 
Edward." 

"  But  father  says,"  continued  Mary,  "  that  wor 
rying  does  not  help  us  any." 

Mrs.  St.  John  was  silent.  She  did  not  wish  to 
argue  the  point  with  her  children. 

"  Father,"  said  Edward,  "  I  do  not  want  to  go  to 
school  to-day.  I  have  not  got  my  lessons,  and  I 
shall  get  marked." 

"  I  thought  you  were  going  to  study  at  home." 

"  So  I  was ;  but  Georgy  was  so  cross,  and  mother 
so  busy,  I  could  not." 

Mr.  St.  John  made  the  best  of  it.  He  was  far 
too  considerate  to  say  "  I  told  you  so."  Mrs.  St. 
John  felt  his  kindness.  She  wished  she  could  have 
got  through  this  house-cleaning  without  causing  so 
much  discomfort  to  her  family.  Was  there  no 
golden  road  to  a  tidy  house  ?  Could  she  not  find 
some  path  over  the  mountain  easier  than  the  one 
she  had  trodden  ?  Surely  glimpses  of  such  an  one 
had  once  cheered  her.  True,  but  she  had  not 
followed  the  trusty  guide,  and  so  she  had  lost  her 
way. 


OR,  A   HOUSE-CLEANING.  77 

Now  she  was  really  ill ;  and,  as  the  day  wore  on, 
it  required  the  courage  of  a  martyr  to  keep  about 
and  attend  to  the  finishing  of  her  work.  But  it 
must  be  done,  and  she  must  do  it.  And  she  did 
do  it. 

The  moon  rose  that  night,  and  through  Mrs.  St. 
John's  clear  windows  poured  a  flood  of  silver  light 
in  upon  her  z#eZ/-cleaned  house.  Yes,  it  was  at 
last  all  in  order.  She  had  a  good  opportunity  to 
congratulate  herself,  for  slumber  did  not  visit  her 
eyelids  that  night.  She  was  tossing  to  and  fro,  and 
in  the  crib  by  her  side  Jane  moaned  in  her  feverish 
sleep.  Both  had  taken  cold,  were  seriously  ill,  and 
the  next  morning  the  doctor  was  called. 

"  It  costs  more  than  it  comes  to,"  Mr,  St.  John 
might  have  said  ;  but  he  did  not,  he  was  considerate. 

He  knew,  also,  that  his  wife  was  abundantly  able 
to  draw  her  own  moral  inferences,  and  he  left  her  to 
do  so. 

For  the  first  forty-eight  hours  in  which  she  lay 
there,  the  consciousness  that  her  house  was  all  done 
was  very  comforting ;  but,  as  other  days  passed,  and 
found  her  still  confined  there,  she  also  began  to  put 
the  question,  "  Has  n't  it  cost  more  than  it  has  come 
to  ?  "  This  query  was  silenced  again  and  again  by 
the  stern  reply  — "  But  it  must  be  done,  and  I 
must  do  it."  "  Well,  then,"  asked  conscience,  "  is 
there  no  better  way  ?  Cannot  I  accomplish  it  with- 
7* 


78        TUB  OLD  LEATHER  POUIFOLIO  : 

out  its  proving  such  a  sore  trial  to  my  temper  ?  " 
Weary  at  length  with  thinking  about  it,  she  deter 
mined  to  divert  her  thoughts.  The  old  portfolio 
was  remembered,  and  she  sent  for  it. 

She  first  looked  over  the  letters ;  they  were  cu 
rious  as  matters  of  family  history.  Mrs.  Bradford 
was  the  mother  of  several  children ;  many  of  the 
letters  were  from  them,  and  some  were  from  her 
husband,  who  it  appeared  held  some  office  in  the 
army.  The  drawings  were  the  work  of  one  son, 
who  seemed  eventually  to  have  become  a  painter. 
Mrs.  St.  John  could  understand  that  love  which  pre 
served  all  these  memorials  of  a  childhood  long  since 
passed  away,  and  she  became  interested  in  Mrs. 
Nancy  Bradford.  She  was  now  quite  eager  to  read 
the  manuscript  in  the  drawer.  She  found  it,  as  she 
expected,  a  private  journal.  It  was  written  on 
coarse  paper,  now  yellow,  stained,  worm-eaten,  the 
writing  almost  illegible,  yet  she  managed  to  de 
cipher  much  of  it.  We  make  a  few  brief  extracts  : 

"  No  letter  now,  from  Mr.  Bradford,  in  five 
months ;  I  am  afraid  that  he,  too,  has  been  taken 
prisoner.  My  boys  are  out  of  shoes,  and  my  chil 
dren  want  frocks.  I  can't  buy  clothing,  for  there  is 
none  to  be  had.  My  money  is  most  out,  and  here  is 
a  cold  winter  coming.  There  is  no  schooling  to  be 
got  for  the  children ;  and  I  can't  get  anybody  to 
haul  wood  for  us.  We  must  have  some,  —  I  shall 


OR,  A   HOUSE-CLEANING.  79 

have  to  take  the  team  and  the  boys,  and  go  myself; 
we  must  get  what  we  can.  No  flour  in  this  region. 
If  it  was  n't  for  our  stock  of  potatoes,  we  should  go 
hungry.  We  can't  get  along  so  all  winter.  If  I 
don't  hear  from  Mr.  Bradford  pretty  soon,  I  must 
decide  on  something ;  for  live  we  must.  I  am  sorely 
tried." 

"  Dear  me !  "  thought  Mrs.  St.  John,  "  that  was 
worse  than  house-cleaning  !  What  should  I  do  with 
my  four  children,  even  with  so  many  comforts 
around  me,  if  Mr.  St.  John  were  away,  I  knew  not 
where,  —  perhaps  dead,  perhaps  in  prison  ?  Why,  I 
cannot  very  well  spare  him  for  a  few  hours,  as  it  is. 
What  wives  and  mothers  there  were  in  those  days  !  " 
She  read  on.  Mrs.  Nancy  Bradford  came  at  length 
to  a  decision  about  her  plans. 

She  wrote  :  "  I  have  determined  to  keep  tav 
ern  ;  for  I  think  I  can  turn  a  penny  or  two  in 
this  way  to  help  along.  Daniel  is  painting  the 
sign.  I  thought  and  prayed  about  this  a  good 
while,  before  I  made  up  my  mind.  At  last  I  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  there  was  no  use  in  asking 
God  to  help  us,  unless  we  tried  to  help  ourselves. 
He  would  n't  do  it.  If  I  want  His  aid,  I  must  do 
the  best  I  can  for  myself." 

"  There  !  "  said  Mrs.  St.  John,  dropping  the 
musty  paper  on  her  white  quilt ;  "  there  is  good 
sense  in  that.  I  '11  remember  it.  If  I  want  His 


80  TUB   OLD   LEATHER    PORTFOLIO  : 

aid,  I  must  do  the  best  I  can  for  myself.  I  don't 
believe  I  have  been  doing  this.  I  should  not  wonder 
if  I  had  been  demanding  the  gift  of  a  peaceful 
spirit,  as  but  fair  pay  for  the  bother  I  've  had. 
Then,  as  to  doing  the  best.  I  have  done,  —  but 
have  I  done  the  best  ?  " 

This  was  opening  the  vexed  question  again,  and 
conscience  was  all  ready  for  the  debate.  Of  this,  as 
we  have  seen,  Mrs.  St.  John  was  weary,  and 
returned  to  the  papers. 

"  Not  a  word  about  Mr.  Bradford  yet.  All  I 
can  do  is  to  hope  for  the  best.  I  am  getting  ready 
to  open  tavern.  The  sign  is  almost  done.  I  mean 
to  begin  in  a  small  way,  and  use  what  I  have  ;  for  I 
will  not  run  in  debt  on  uncertainties.  We  don't 
know  in  these  times  what  a  day  may  bring  forth.  I 
shan't  buy  new  beds.  If  I  have  more  lodgers  than 
beds,  the  boys  must  go  into  the  barn-chamber  to 
sleep ;  and  if  we  are  running  over  then,  I  can  take 
the  girls  and  go  too.  The  barn  is  dry,  and  the  hay 
sweet.  I  '11  count  my  timber,  and  not  lay  out  a 
broader  foundation  than  I  can  build  upon.  That  is 
good  sound  doctrine,  about  sitting  down  to  count  the 
cost.  The  Bible  is  as  good  to  live  by  as  to  die  by. 
I  won't  kill  myself  nor  the  children  with  work.  I 
won't  undertake  more  than  I  can  go  through  with. 
I  '11  know  what  the  cost  will  be  ;  then  I  shan't  be 
disappointed. 


OR,  A   HOUSE-CLEANING.  81 

"  I  just  hear  Mr.  Bradford  is  in  prison,  sick. 
Perhaps  he  will  never  see  his  home  again.  Many  a 
neighbor  has  rotted  in  those  York  jails." 

'•I  won't  undertake  more  than  I  ca?i  go  through 
with.  I  'II  count  the  cost !  "  "  That  is  the  right 
policy,"  thought  Mrs.  St.  John.  "  I  always  make 
a  mistake  at  this  point.  I  see  it  now.  I  undertake 
too  much.  I  lay  too  much  foundation  for  my  tim 
ber.  This  is  one  reason  why  we  all  get  so  over 
worked.  Mrs.  Nancy  Bradford  manages  matters 
better.  I  can  learn  a  lesson  from  her,  which  I 
will  remember  the  next  time  I  have  a  house  to 
clean.  I  will  first  count  the  cost.  If  I  cannot 
command  money,  I  will  give  myself  more  time. 
If  I  cannot  have  either,  I  will  undertake  the  less  , 
work.  I  feel  sure  I  should  get  along  better  to 
start  on  this  principle.  I  do  push  matters  too  hard, 
when  I  have  great  things  to  do." 

Mrs.  St.  John  began  already  to  feel  stronger ;  she 
sat  up  in  bed,  and  resumed  her  reading. 

"  Daniel  has  finished  his  sign  to-day,  and  I  think 
it  is  a  beauty.  I  only  wish  his  father  could  see  it. 
He  has  painted  the  rising  sun  on  one  side,  and  the 
American  eagle  on  the  other,  which  I  think  looks 
very  natural.  He  is  varnishing  it  now,  and  will 
have  it  up  to-morrow.  I  have  already  had  some 
company,  but  they  were  not  very  clever  folks ;  they 
found  some  fault  with  everything  that  was  set  before 


82  THE   OLD   LEATHER   PORTFOLIO  : 

them,  and  took  more  liquor  than  they  needed.  I 
felt  a  good  deal  tried  when  they  said,  in  my  hearing, 
'that  my  doughnuts  were  hard  as  bullets;  '  but  I 
got  over  it  again  ;  for  I  have  made  up  my  mind 
that  if  I  keep  tavern  I  must  take  what  a  tavern 
brings.  I  know  1  shall  be  sorely  tempted  to  anger 
often.  I  can  say,  with  good  Mr.  Contrite,  '  'T  is 
hard  keeping  our  hearts  and  spirits  in  good  order, 
when  we  are  in  a  cumbered  condition.'  But  I 
must  take  the  lot  that 's  given  me,  and  I  find  there 
is  no  comfort  like  believing  that  God  plans  it  all  out 
for  us,  great  and  little.  '  Keep  near  to  God,'  as 
our  good  minister  said.  This  is  the  right  way ; 
this  keeps  your  mind  easy  ;  and  when  your  mind  is 
easy,  the  rest  soon  comes  right." 

Tears  began  to  fill  Mrs.  St.  John's  eyes.  "  Dear 
old  Mrs.  Nancy,  did  you  write  those  comforting 
thoughts  so  long  ago,  to  help  me  over  some  of  life's 
rough  places  ?  '  If  your  mind  is  easy,  all  the  rest 
toll  soon  come  right.  Make  it  easy,  by  keeping 
near  to  God.' "  Mrs.  St.  John  pondered  long  over 
this  before  she  resumed  her  leading. 

"  When  I  have  such  company  come,"  continued 
Mrs.  Bradford,  "  I  have  to  make  a  point  of  speak 
ing  in  a  low,  slow  tone.  If  I  don't,  I  find  my 
voice  sometimes  runs  away  with  me,  and  I  get 
scolding  the  children  before  I  know  it.  I  don't 
want  to  have  their  young  tempers  fretted." 


OR,    A    HOUSE-CLEANING.  83 

"  Have  not  I  been  thoughtless  about  the  com 
fort  of  my  children,  through  house-cleaning  ?  "  said 
Mrs.  St.  John,  with  a  sigh. 

"  Part  of  a  regiment,"  continued  the  journal, 
"  quarter  here  next  week.  I  don't  know  hardly 
which  way  to  turn.  Isaac  is  sick,  and  he  is  my 
right-hand  man.  I  must  provide  beds  and  food, 
and  there  is  so  much  to  do  I  hardly  know  which 
end  to  begin  at.  But  begin  I  will ;  for,  when  my 
business  gets  into  a  tangle,  there  is  no  way  for  me 
to  work  but  to  take  right  hold  and  straighten  it  out. 
If  I  can  only  see  my  way  clear,  I  can  get  along,  if 
there  is  ever  so  much  to  do." 

"  I  understand  this,"  thought  Mrs.  St.  John. 
"  My  work  lies  in  a  tangle  before  me,  much  of  the 
time,  particularly  if  it  is  any  great  work.  It  would 
help  me,  as  much  as  it  did  her,  to  take  right  hold  of 
it  and  straighten  it  out.  If  I  could  see  my  way 
dear,  it  would  help  me  keep  an  easy  mind."  She 
read  on. 

"  I  have  now  kept  tavern  a  year ;  perhaps  I  shall 
have  to  keep  it  another  year,  before  I  see  Mr. 
Bradford  at  home  ;  but  the  boys  are  bigger,  and  can 
help  me  more  than  they  did  when  1^  began,  and  I 
have  got  more  used  to  it.  I  can  have  a  system 
about  it,  which  I  could  not  at  first ;  and  this  is  the 
beauty  of  doing  work.  I  have  got  along  wonder 
fully.  The  greatest  trouble  I  have  is  the  fear,  lest 


84  THE   OLD   LEATHER    PORTFOLIO. 

when  I  am  so  worried  and  hurried,  I  should  bring 
reproach  upon  the  name  of  Christ.  I  think  a  good 
deal  of  what  Mr.  Holyman  said,  —  '  There  are  two 
things  which  they  have  need  to  be  possessed  with, 
who  go  on  a  pilgrimage  :  courage,  and  an  unspotted 
life.'  If  I  can  only  have  these,  I  shall  never  mind 
these  hard  times." 

"  What  a  life  of  faith  and  energy  !  "  said  Mrs.  St. 
John.  Yes,  faith  and  energy ;  and  if  it  would  carry 
a  woman  safely  through  those  dark  and  perilous 
times,  is  it  not  abundantly  able  to  carry  her  through 
the  lighter  troubles  of  these  prosperous  days,  when 
we  all  sit  unmolested  beneath  our  own  vine  and 
our  fig-tree  ?  Will  it  not  at  least  carry  her  safely 
through  the  modern  perils  of  a  "House-cleaning"  ? 

We  leave  Mrs.  St.  John  to  make  her  own  moral 
reflections,  believing,  with  Mr.  St.  John,  that  she  is 
abundantly  able  so  to  do. 


THE   MAY-QUEENS. 

WE  all  welcome  May.  March  shakes  his  fist 
roughly  at  us,  showing  that  he  is  a  regular  "  chip 
of  the  old  block,"  inheriting  the  surly  temper  of  his 
father.  April  is  capricious,  —  all  smiles  and  tears ; 
there  is  no  dependence  to  be  placed  upon  her ;  but 
May  comes  in  with  her  love-tokens  of  crocuses  and 
daffodils,  aod  wins  us  over  to  the  faith  that  Spring 
is  far  advanced,  and  Summer  is  at  hand.  Now,  in 
the  morning,  with  the  children,  we  loiter  before  the 
southern  grass-plats,  and  peep  through  the  dusty 
fences,  to  see  and  enjoy  the  young  flowers,  and  at 
noon-time  we  are  found  on  the  shady  walks.  We 
are  quite  ready  for  a  stroll  to  the  Common,  on  May 
day  ;  though  we  loiter  still  before  cages  which  are 
hung  out  here  and  there,  that  we  may  listen  to  the 
canary-birds.  They  delight  in  the  balmy  air  and  in 
the  blue  sky.  unconscious  apparently  of  their  cage- 
wires  ;  for  they  sing  away  as  if  they  would  sing 
their  little  hearts  out.  Nor  are  they  the  only  ones 
who  delight  in  May-day.  On  such  a  morning  as  is 
here  described,  when  we  entered  the  mail  and  took 
our  seat  under  the  budding  elms,  we  found  that  a 
8 


00  TEE   MAY-QUEENS. 

May-pole  had  sprung  up  in  the  night,  and  was  in 
full  bloom  with  roses.  Around  it  young  girls, 
dressed  in  white,  danced  hand  in  hand ;  and  one  with 
flowing  golden  curls  wore  gracefully  a  crown  of 
roses.  She  was  the  May-day  Queen,  chosen,  as 
one  could  see  at  a  glance,  for  her  great  beauty. 
She  was  tall  for  her  years,  which  could  not  have 
numbered  more  than  fifteen  ;  she  had  a  figure  light 
and  fairy-like,  and  a  countenance  cast  in  the  Grecian 
mould,  almost  faultless  in  its  profile.  With  cheeks 
flushed  by  excitement,  eyes  sparkling,  her  broad 
forehead  subdued  in  the  mellow  shadow  of  the  rose- 
crown,  she  was  exceedingly  lovely.  Round  and 
round  her,  hand  in  hand,  merrily  singing,  danced 
her  white-robed  friends,  stopping  every  now  and 
then,  in  the  evolutions  of  the  figure,  to  pay  their 
obeisance  to  the  queen,  and  cast  flowers  at  her  feet. 
This  homage  she  received  and  acknowledged  with 
much  grace  and  an  innocent  pride.  It  was  a  beau 
tiful  sight,  —  in  full  harmony  with  the  beautiful 
May  morning.  The  old  apple-woman  under  the 
trees  forgot  alike  her  knitting  and  her  customers ; 
even  the  man  of  business  paused  in  his  hurried  work, 
and  expended  several  golden  minutes  on  such  a 
pretty  sight. 

After  a  time,  a  somewhat  singular  spectator 
appeared.  A  gentleman,  apparently  a  young  gen 
tleman,  wrapped  in  a  Highland  shawl,  with  which 


THE   MAY-QUEENS.  87 

he  concealed  his  face,  and  wearing  a  little  jockey 
cap,  began  to  pace  back  and  forth  in  the  mall,  not 
far  from  the  May -pole.  It  soon  became  evident  that 
he  was  attracted  by  the  May-queen.  Once,  when 
she  was  singing  to  her  court,  he  almost  stopped  oppo 
site  her;  then  he  recommenced  his  slow  pacing, 
back  and  forth.  His  manojuvres  at  length  attracted 
the  attention  of  the  party.  The  young  girls  smiled 
significantly  one  to  another,  and  besought  the  queen 
to  look  upon  her  admirer ;  and  she,  though  with 
becoming  dignity  resenting  his  homage,  yet  followed 
him  with  side-way  glances.  The  color  deepened  a 
little  in  her  cheeks,  and  there  was  now  and  then  an 
added  grace,  which  showed  that  she  was  conscious 
of  being  observed.  Still,  while  the  dance  continued, 
back  and  forth  passed  the  Highland  plaid.  At 
length  the  little  dancers  were  weary,  warm  and 
thirsty,  and  the  May-queen  proposed  rest  and  re 
freshment,  and  cooling  ices  at  Vinton's.  Thither 
her  party,  still  in  rose-wreaths,  followed  her.  Room 
was  given  them  on  the  side-walks,  and  also  an  hon 
orable  place  at  Vinton's.  When  merrily  seated  at 
their  ices,  the  May-queen,  who  had  laid  aside  her 
crown  in  order  to  cool  her  brow,  looked  up  and 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  Highland  plaid  at  the  door. 
It  fluttered  there  a  few  seconds ;  its  wearer,  care 
fully  concealing  his  face,  reconnoitred  the  premises, 
and  then  disappeared.  The  young  girls  broke  out 


88  THE   MAT-QUEENS. 

into  a  merry  laugh,  while  the  queen,  with  burning 
cheeks,  tried  in  vain  to  look  dignified. 

"  Perhaps  the  Highland  chief  intends  to  wait 
and  follow  you  home,  Rosa,"  said  Nannette,  her 
sister,  who  was  also  her  maid-of-honor  ;  "  how  father 
will  laugh  ! " 

"  Don't  tell  him,  Nannette,"  said  Rosa ;  "  he  will 
think  we  were  foolish  to  take  any  notice  of  him." 

Nannette,  however,  did  not  obey  this  injunction, 
for,  as  soon  as  they  were  seated  at  the  dinner-table, 
she  told  her  father  the  story ;  how  Rosa  had  been 
chosen  Queen  of  the  May,  and  had  been  closely 
watched,  through  the  morning,  by  a  gentleman  in  a 
Highland  plaid. 

"  Indeed  !  "  said  her  father,  with  much  surprise ; 
"  who  was  he  ?  With  your  majesty's  permission,  I 
must  look  into  this  a  little.  Did  you  encourage 
him,  may  I  inquire  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  papa,  I  did  not,"  said  Rosa  ;  "  I  only 
looked,  once  in  a  while,  to  see  if  he  was  still  there ; 
and  at  last,  when  we  found  he  would  not  go  off,  we 
left  the  Common,  and  went  to  Vinton's." 

"  Yes,  and  don't  you  think,  papa,"  said  Nannette, 
"  he  came  there  and  looked  in  at  khe  door ;  but  he 
kept  his  face  so  wrapped  up  in  his  shawl,  we  could 
not  even  see  his  eyes.  He  pulled  his  cap  down,  too. 
We  concluded  he  was  discouraged  by  the  sight  of 
Rosa's  great  glass  of  cream,  and  would  not  wait  for 
her  to  finish  it." 


THE   MAY-QUEENS.  89 

"  This  is  a  marvellous  story !  Who  was  he,  I 
wonder  ?  Did  he  remind  you  of  any  one  in  par 
ticular  ?  " 

"  Yes,  papa,  he  was  just  your  height." 

"  Indeed ! " 

"  Yes,  and  he  walked  like  you ;  and  his  hair  in 
his  neck  looked  just  like  yours;  I  noticed  it." 

"  You  must  have  noticed  him  a  great  deal,  then, 
my  little  May-queen." 

"  Indeed,  I  could  not  help  it,  papa,  it  was  so  very 
singular." 

"  Father,"  said  Nannette,  "  how  roguish  you  look! 
I  do  believe  you  know  something  about  it.  Look  at 
him,  Rosa,  —  his  eyes  are  full  of  fun ;  and  now  mother 
is  laughing  too." 

"  //  how  should  /know  anything  about  it?  " 

"  Ah,  but  I  know  you  do.  And  now  I  do  really 
believe  it  was  you,  yourself,  papa,  in  a  borrowed 
shawl  and  cap.  Wasn't  it?  There,"  said  Nan 
nette,  clapping  her  hands,  "  you  laugh;  now  I  know 
I  've  found  you  out." 

"  Yes,  you  are  right,  Nanny,"  said  her  father. 

"  0,  Rosa  !  only  think,  —  it  was  father  !  What 
will  the  girls  say  ?  " 

Rosa  tried  to  laugh,  too,  but  she  felt  more  like 
crying ;  tears  really  came  into  her  eyes.  She  felt 
a  little  ashamed  of  herself;  she  would  not  willingly 


90  THE    MAY-QUEENS. 

have  exhibited  so  much  vanity  before  her  father. 
He  understood  her  feelings,  at  once. 

"  My  dear  daughter,"  said  he,  drawing  her  to 
him,  and  placing  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  "  are 
you  not  as  much  pleased  with  the  admiration  of 
your  father  as  you  would  be  with  that  of  any  other 
gentleman  ?  " 

"  Yes,  papa,"  said  Rosa,  "  but  I  am  so  afraid 
that  I  was  silly  !  " 

"  And  if  you  were,  my  child,  would  any  other 
gentleman  be  as  ready  to  make  allowances  for  it  as 
your  father  would  ?  " 

Roia  nestled  nearer  him. 

•'  I  wished  to  enjoy  the  day  with  you,  my  child. 
It  gave  me  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  to  watch  you 
and  Nannette,  unknown  to  you.  It  made  me  happy 
to  see  you  bear  your  honors  so  gently,  and  also  to 
see  that  you  were  considerate  of  the  comfort  of  your 
young  friends."  He  pushed  aside  her  ringlets,  and 
kis.sed  her  fair  brow.  "  My  little  Nanny,  here, 
also  made  her  father  glad,  by  her  generous  devotion 
to  the  queen." 

His  young  daughters  looked  up,  smiling ;  they 
returned  his  caresses  affectionately,  and  laid  their 
soft,  blooming  cheeks  to  his,  and  felt  happy,  and 
satisfied,  and  secure  in  his  love. 

He,  with  a  full  heart,  wished  they  might  always 
thus  confide  in  him,  and  that  he  might  ever  thus 


THE   MAY-QUEENS.  91 

encircle  them  in  his  protecting  arms.  The  affection 
of  such  a  father  for  his  daughters  is  tender  and 
beautiful ;  it  does  us  good  to  contemplate  it,  and  to 
keep  our  hearts  sensitive  to  its  value.  In  its  charge 
we  cheerfully  leave  our  May-day  queen  and  amiable 
maid  of  honor,  for  the  May-day  sun  shines  brightly 
on  other  spots  than  Boston  Common,  and  another 
May-day  party  claims  our  attention. 

This  party  belonged  in  one  of  the  country  towns 
adjacent  to  Boston.  They  had  left  their  homes 
early,  and  were'  now  straggling  through  dewy  leaves 
and  wet  fern,  climbing  stone  walls  and  slippery 
rocks,  wading  through  meadow  lands  intersected  by 
running  brooks,  that  they  might  hold  their  festival  in 
a  distant  grove.  They  reached  it,  but,  of  course,  with 
wet  feet  and  draggled  dresses,  and  then  found  the 
grove  so  chilly  and  damp,  they  were  glad  to  adjourn 
to  a  dry,  flat  rock,  in  an  open  field.  Having  taken 
possession  of  the  sunny  side,  they  deposited  their 
baskets,  and  proceeded  first  to  gather  wild-flowers, 
with  which  to  crown  a  queen.  They  could  find  only 
a  few  violets,  and  butter-cups,  and  dandelions ;  but 
with  these  they  wove  fox-berries  and  evergreens,  and 
made  a  pretty  wreath.  They  then  chose  their  queen; 
and  their  choice  fell  upon  one  who,  like  our  Rosa, 
was  about  fifteen,  —  tall  also,  and  delicate.  Her 
face,  with  its  regular  features  and  pure  complexion, 
ought  to  have  been  handsome,  and  would  have  been 


92  THE   MAY-QUEENS. 

so,  but  for  a  certain  sad  and  mature  expression  which 
it  generally  wore ;  an  expression  which  indicated 
that,  young  as  she  was,  she  had  known  trouble. 
Her  name  was  Susan  Price.  She  was  a  kind- 
hearted,  generous  girl,  and  a  general  favorite  among 
her  companions.  She  was  much  pleased  at  being 
chosen  queen  ;  an  unusual  light  danced  in  her  blue 
eyes,  and  a  hidden  spring  of  gayety  came  bubbling 
up  for  the  occasion.  She  entered  into  the  sport  as 
she  did  not  often  do,  and  sang  and  danced  on  the 
rock  with  the  rest.  She  seemed  to  receive  with 
intense  satisfaction  the  courtesy  and  consideration 
which  was  paid  her.  She  seemed  to  enjoy  her  brief 
season  of  power  with  her  whole  soul ;  she  almost 
felt  as  if  she  were  really  a  queen,  and  for  the  time 
forgot  she  was  only  a  child  of  sorrow.  The  dance 
over,  the  weary  girls  threw  themselves  down  on  the 
rock,  and  prepared  their  breakfast,  serving  it  on 
fern-leaves  and  flag-root  rushes.  It  was  a  merry 
breakfasting ;  and  when  it  was  over,  the  sun  had 
mounted  somewhat  high,  blue-birds  were  singing, 
and  it  was  time  for  a  homeward  start,  for  all  the 
party,  young  as  they  were,  had  yet  a  day's  work 
to  do. 

The  May-queen  now  picked  her  way  carefully 
through  the  meadows  and  over  the  fences,  for  she 
feared  to  disturb  her  crown,  and  dispel  the  bright 
illusion  which  was  born  with  it.  She  wore  it  quite 


THE   MAY-QUJEENS.  93 

through  the  village,  home  to  her  own  door.  Here 
she  took  her  leave  of  her  young  friends,  and  when 
they  were  out  of  sight,  she  stopped  and  listened. 
All  was  still ;  so  she  gently  raised  the  latch  of  the 
door,  and  went  softly  into  the  kitchen.  As  she 
hoped,  she  found  her  mother  there  alone. 

"  Mother,  mother !  "  said  she,  with  unusual  eager 
ness,  "  look  at  me.  I  am  Queen  of  the  May.  See 
my  crown,  —  is  it  not  pretty  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  her  mother,  turning  round  a  pale, 
worried  face,  and  looking  up  with  a  heavy  eye ; 
"  yes,  I  see,"  and  then  she  returned  to  her  work. 

Susan  began  to  tell  her,  in  an  earnest  tone,  the 
adventures  of  the  morning  ;  she  could  think  of  noth 
ing  else,  for  the  May-crown  was  yet  on  her  fair  brow, 
and  she  was  yet  a  queen. 

"  Hush ! "  said  her  mother,  significantly,  pointing 
to  the  bed-room.  Susan  hushed  in  an  instant,  for 
she  now  heard  a  loud  and  angry  voice.  Her  father 
was  scolding  one  of  his  boys. 

"  What  —  again,  mother  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Bad  as  ever?" 

"  Just  as  bad." 

"  0  dear  !  0  dear  ! " 

A  heavy  step,  —  her  father  was  approaching. 
Susan  Price  turned,  slipped  out  the  back  way,  and 
softly  closed  the  door  after  her.  She  sat  down  on 


94  THE   MAY-QUEENS. 

the  stone  step.  The  May  suu  still  shone  brightly, 
and  the  blue-birds  sung,  and  seemed  to  wish  to  cheer 
her.  She  took  off  her  crown,  rearranged  its  rubies 
and  diamonds,  and  then  put  it  on  again.  She  then 
took  off  her  shoes,  and  held  out  her  chilled  feet  into 
the  friendly  sunshine,  and  spread  her  draggled  dress 
to  dry.  She  was  still  a  queen,  for  the  illusion  would 
not  so  soon  vanish ;  and  she  hummed  softly  the  May 
day  songs,  which  had  been  sung  that  morning.  Sud 
denly  she  received  a  hard  blow  on  her  head,  —  her 
crown  fell  into  the  mud,  her  song  ceased.  She 
sprung  up  with  a  bitter  cry,  for  her  angry  father 
stood  behind  her. ' 

"  You  lazy  slut,"  said  he,  "why  an't  you  in  help 
ing  your  mother  get  breakfast  ?  Up,  and  along  with 
you,  I  say  !  " 

Susan  obeyed  instantly.  She  did  not  stop  even 
to  look  for  her  crown,  —  she  no  longer  had  subjects, 
—  alas,  poor  girl  !  she  no  longer  had  a  father. 
Drinking  had  turned  him  into  a  brute  ! 

That  hidden  spring  of  gayety  which  had  bubbled 
up  so  freshly  at  early  dawn  was  sealed  as  if  with 
seven  seals.  The  past  vanished  ;  she  lived  only  in 
the  dreary  present ;  and,  with  a  countenance  fully 
reflecting  her  mother's  worried  expression,  and  with 
the  same  heavy  eye,  she  went  about  her  day's  toil. 

Orfce  there  had  been  no  need  of  toil,  for  this  fam 
ily  were  in  easy  circumstances ;  the  father  was  a 


THE    MAY-QUEENS.  95 

.sober  man,  and  they  were  a  happy  family.  But 
times  were  sadly  changed ;  for  he  had  engaged  in 
business  in  Boston,  and  then,  in  respectable  places, 
—  yes,  in  dazzling  saloons  and  "  first-class  "  hotels, 
frequented  by  the  rich  and  the  honored,  —  he  had 
been  tempted,  and  had  fallen.  The  result  was  the 
scene  in  that  desolate  home,  on  May  morning. 

Thus,  even  to-day,  all  around  us,  young  hearts 
are  breaking,  and  gentle  spirits  are  crushed  and 
bleeding,  because  he  on  whom  they  leaned  has  sold 
his  soul  for  strong  drink.  Yet  we  must  not  save 
them  !  0,  no  !  for  are  we  not  told  that  we  must 
not  interfere  with  the  trade  of  our  goodly  city  ? 
The  tempter  who  pockets  the  gain  builds  his  palace 
on  the  ruins  of  many  such  desolate  homes ;  and 
young  May-queens  hush  their  songs,  and  weep 
around  it,  and  grow  old  in  very  childhood.  But 
we  must  not  cheer  them  !  0,  no  !  for  the  interests 
of  a  great  trade  would  suffer,  and  then  how  could 
we  compete  with  rival  cities  ?  So  they  that  are  in 
authority  tell  us,  and  their  voice  is  echoed  from  high 
places,  —  and  surely 

"  Brutus  is  an  honorable  man  ; 
So  are  they  all,  all  honorable  men." 


THE  HUSBAND  OF  A  BLUE. 

MARION  GRAY'S  room  was  all  in  disorder.  The 
table  and  chairs  were  covered  with  her  clothing; 
books  and  pamphlets,  writing-desks  and  port-folios, 
lay  scattered  here  and  there  on  the  floor. 

Marion  was  packing,  and  those  huge  trunks  were 
to  be  sent  in  the  afternoon  by  the  express  train  to 
a  distant  home.  She  was  to  be  married  on  the  mor 
row,  and  after  a  wedding  tour  follow  them  thither. 

Marion  was  nearly  in  the  same  state  of  confusion 
as  her  room.  She  told,  by  flushed  cheeks,  and 
bright  eyes,  and  a  hurried  speech  and  manner,  that 
she  was  becoming  very  nervous.  She  could  have 
written  a  scientific  tract  with  less  effort  and  more 
self-possession  than  she  exhibited  in  packing  her 
trunks  and  settling  the  little  practical  questions 
which  were  continually  coming  up.  Her  friends, 
who  were  helping  her,  seemed  also  much  hurried, — 
all  but  Aunt  Clara,  who  sat  at  a  favorite  window, 
quietly  drawing  the  heels  to  several  new  pairs  of 
Angola  stockings. 

"There  is  one  pair  ready  to  pack,"  said  she,  roll 
ing  them  up  and  tossing  them  into  the  midst  of  a 
heap  of  papers. 


THE   HUSBAND   OF    A    BLUE.  97 

• 

"  You  are  very  kind,  Aunt  Clara,"  said  Marion ; 
"  but  you  would  help  me  more  if  you  would  stitch 
these  papers  together." 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Aunt  Clara,  in  her  blunt,  good- 
natured  way,  "  I  know  what  you  want;  but  I  shall 
not  do  it.  I  Ve  lost  my  reckoning,  if  you  don't 
find  a  new  meaning  in  what  I  've  so  often  told  you, 
that  you  'd  a  deal  better  be  running  stocking-heels 
than  scribbling  up  so  much  paper." 

Marion  smiled,  —  not  in  reply  to  her  aunt's  re 
mark,  however.  She  found  at  that  moment  among 
her  loose  papers  a  missing  article,  for  which  she 
had  long  searched  in  vain. 

"  0,  I  am  so  glad !  "  exclaimed  she. 

"  And  well  you  may  be,"  said  Aunt  Clara,  "  as 
long  as  you  have  some  one  to  run  them  for  you." 

"  Marion  !  Marion  !  "  was  called  from  the  foot  of 
the  stairs. 

She  started  up  at  the  well-known  voice,  and  gave 
a  hasty  glance  at  herself  in  the  glass.  "  Do  not  I 
look  too  bad  to  go  down  ?  "  said  she  appealingly  to 
Aunt  Clara. 

Her  morning  dress  was  certainly  the  worse  for 
wear ;  she  was  without  a  collar,  and  her  soft,  black 
hair  had  partially  disengaged  itself  from  the  braids 
and  fallen  down.  But  there  was  a  light  in  her 
hazel  eyes  which  her  spectacles  even  did  not  dim, 
and  a  blush  on  her  still  youthful  cheeks ;  and  not- 
9 


98  THE   HUSBAND   OF   A   BLUE. 

• 

withstanding  her  dishabille,  she  had  not  often  looked 
better. 

"No,  run  along,"  said  her  aunt;  "he  will  see 
you  looking  worse  than  this,  some  morning,  if  ho 
sees  you  as  long  as  I  have,  I  reckon." 

Marion  hasted;  she  was  much  in  love. 

"  To-morrow  was  the  wedding  day, 
And  she  was  going." 

She  sat  down  with  her  friend  Ashton,  to  talk  a 
few  minutes,  and  soon  quite  forgot  her  half-packed 
trunks.  The  bell  rang  one,  and  the  express  was  to 
leave  at  four.  She  started  up,  recalled  to  life's 
practical  duties,  and  hurried  to  her  disordered  cham 
ber;  but  Aunt  Clara's  strong  arm  and  good  \\ill 
had  done  the  work  for  her,  and  her  trunks  stood 
there,  all  ready  to  lock.  She  gratefully  acknowl 
edged  a  kindness  which  she  appreciated  better  than 
she  had  done  the  needle-work. 

Marion  was  up  with  the  first  timid  blush  of  the 
bridal  morning.  Indeed,  she  had  slept  but  little 
through  the  night,  —  she  could  not.  She  felt  that 
she  was  about  to  cut  adrift  from  her  old  moorings, 
and  sail  into  untried  seas.  Again  and  again  con 
science  questioned  her  closely.  Ought  she  to  venture 
there,  with  her  ignorance  and  dislike  of  all  domestic 
duty  ?  What  was  she  fit  for  but  study  ?  Nothing, 
and  she  knew  it.  Ought  she,  then,  to  take  charge 


THE   HUSBAND   OP   A   BLUB.  VJ» 

• 

of  a  home  of  her  own  ?  This  question  vexed  her,  — 
she  was  glad  when  night  vanished.  She  sat  in  the 
dim  light  by  the  window,  and  recalled  all  which 
Mr.  Ashton  had  said  to  comfort  her  when  she  had 
conversed  with  him  on  the  subject.  She  had  told 
him  frankly,  with  look  and  voice,  which  spoke  more 
even'  than  her  words,  "  that  she  loved  him,  but  she 
hated  house-keeping,  and  that  next  to  his  society 
she  cared  for  little  but  her  books/'  But  Mr.  Ash- 
ton  was  in  love,  and  what  does  a  man  in  love  care 
for  domestic  accomplishments  ?  "A  house-keeper 
he  could  hire,  but  where  could  he  find  another  wo 
man  like  Marion  Gray  ?  "  This  iu  the  pride  of  his 
heart  he  tokl  her,  and  thus  sought  to  remove  her 
difficulties  and  put  her  mind  at  rest;  and  he  suc 
ceeded  then,  but  she  was  too  sensible  to  remain  long 
satisfied  with  conclusions  from  such  premises.  Yet 
what  good  would  anxiety  do  her  now  ?  The  sun  is 
rising  higher  and  higher;  before  he  starts  on  his 
journey  again  she  will  be  a  wife,  —  the  wife  of  him 
she  loves.  Once  then  for  all,  she  flings  her  fears  to 
the  winds ;  she  resolves  to  be  true  to  herself,  —  to 
follow  the  bent  of  her  tastes,  and,  whatever  else  she 
neglects,  she  resolves  not  to  neglect  her  studies; 
and,  as  the  sun  shines  out  brighter  and  brighter  on 
this  resolution,  she  is  more  fully  convinced  that  such 
a  course  will  best  insure  their  mutual  happiness. 
Now  there  is  no  more  time  to  think.  The  fam- 


100  THE   HUSBAND   OF   A   BLUE. 

ily  are  astir,  —  there  is  running  hither  and  thither, 
bells  ring,  bouquets  arrive,  —  it  is  like  Flora's 
gala-day.  Quickly  it  passes ;  —  the  sun,  all  undis 
turbed,  jogs  on  and  finishes  his  task  on  the  second ; 
he  will  work  no  longer,  even  for  Marion's  bridal. 

Company  arrives ;  the  bride  is  dressed  and  veiled, 
and  blushingly  places  her  gloved  hand  within  that 
of  the  bridegroom.  Her  broad,  intellectual  fore 
head  is  softened  by  the  shadows  of  the  orange-buds, 
and  about  her  mouth  plays  that  expression  which 
makes  even  the  face  of  a  homely  woman  fair  to 
look  upon.  The  groom  was  not  the  only  one  who 
thought  Marion  Gray  handsome  on  her  wedding 
eve.  In  his  admiration  there  was  much  pride 
mingled,  and  in  an  impulse  of  generous  devotion  he 
determined  that  he  would  so  adjust  the  cares  of  his 
new  home  that  his  wife's  studies  should  not  be 
broken  in  upon. 

On  the  morrow  there  were  tears  at  parting ;  but 
such  tears  are  like  those  April  showers  which  fall 
sparkling  in  the  sunshine.  The  bridal  pair  whirled 
away,  towards  a  distant  city,  and  Aunt  Clara  re 
turned  to  the  deserted  room.  She  also  could  have 
shed  tears ;  for  Marion,  with  all  her  faults,  was  a 
favorite  niece,  whom  she  had  almost  brought  up. 
She  knew  that  she  should  miss  her,  but  shedding 
tears  was  not  quite  in  her  line ;  so  she  comforted 


THE   HUSBAND   OF   A   BLUE.  101 

herself  by  setting  the  room  to  rights,  and  thinking 
of  the  time  when  Marion  should  revisit  it. 

Much  more  time  passed  than  she  had  anticipated 
before  Marion  came  to  her  old  home  again.  The 
wedding-wreaths  had  long  since  faded,  and  Flora 
had  thrown  out  many  fresh  flowers  for  other  brides. 
The  sunshine  and  music,  all  the  glad  beauty  of  that 
happy  time,  had  mellowed  down  into  the  quiet  light 
and  tones  of  every-day  life.  Marion  did  not  come 
back  to  her  room  a  bride ;  she  had  become  a  wife 
and  a  house-keeper.  How  she  sustained  herself  in 
these  new  relations  Aunt  Clara  was  curious  to 
observe,  and  she  could  not  avoid  marking  some 
changes.  Mr.  Ashton  had  become  grave,  and  Marion 
"  fidgety."  When  more  at  home  in  her  old  quar 
ters,  she  also  exhibited  other  traits  which  pained  her 
friend.  She  spent  the  best  part  of  the  d;iy  at  her 
own  study-table,  apparently  forgetful  of  her  hus 
band's  comfort.  It  being  his  vacation,  he  had  pur 
posely  left  his  books  behind  him,  as  he  needed  recre 
ation.  He  tried  to  persuade  Marion  to  do  the  same, 
but  in  vain.  She  was  an  indefatigable  student, 
working  even  at  unseasonable  times,  regardless  of 
any  complaint  from  her  over-taxed  nerves.  He  was 
therefore  compelled  to  amuse  himselT  in  the  best  way 
he  could  devise.  Sometimes  he  would  lounge  into 
his  wife's  study  ;  but  he  found  that  she  was  too  little 
accustomed  to  such  interruptions  to  make  them 


102  THE   HUSBAND   OF   A    BLUE. 

altogether  agreeable  to  her.  Now,  Aunt  Clara 
thought  this  selfish.  With  her  strong  common 
sense,  and  her  benevolent  heart,  she  appreciated 
much  more  readily  those  qualities  which  make  one's 
friends  happy,  rather  than  those  which  make  them 
proud.  One  day  she  spoke  to  Marion  : 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  said  she,  "  that  I  would  not 
study  the  whole  time.  Why  did  you  not  go  out  to 
ride  with  Mr.  Ashton  ?  He  has  gone  alone." 

"  I  told  him  I  would  go  after  tea,"  was  her 
reply. 

"  But  that  is  too  late  for  the  ride  to  benefit  either 
of  you." 

Marion  did  not  think  so.  From  this  time  her 
aunt  quietly  took  it  upon  herself  to  ride  with  Mr. 
Ashton  when  he  seemed  so  disposed,  and  the  more 
she  became  acquainted  with  him  the  better  she  liked 
him.  She  thought  he  had  but  one  fault,  and  this 
was  an  over-indulgence  of  his  wife.  As  she  viewed 
the  matter,  he  humored  her  in  her  tastes  and  no 
tions  far  too  much  for  her  best  good,  or  his  own 
comfort.  She  saw  plainly  enough  that  his  kindness 
made  Marion's  selfish  heart  the  more  exacting  in  its 
demands.  She  seemed  to  feel  it  her  right  to  call 
upon  Mr.  Ashton  to  accommodate  himself  to  her 
hours  and  plans;  for  had  she  not  married  him  ?  If 
he  failed  to  do  so,  she  was  sufficiently  offended  to  be 
moody.  Did  he  urge  her  leaving  her  study  at  an 


THE    HUSBAND    OF    A    BLUE.  103 

inconvenient  time,  to  receive  and  entertain  callers, 
her  brow  was  clouded ;  in  short,  whenever  his 
wishes  crossed  hers,  and  he  did  not  readily  yield 
them,  she  fell  into  what  must,  even  in  a  learned 
lady,  be  called  the  sulks.  She  was  unsociable  and 
reserved ;  she  read  almost  constantly,  and  there 
was  an  indescribable  chill  and  constraint  about  her, 
which  sensibly  affected  one's  spirits  like  going  into  a 
damp  cellar.  Aunt  Clara  saw  that  Marion  was 
never  gemal,  excepting  when  she  had  her  own  way. 
This  she  felt  was  all  wrong,  and  she  became  anxious 
to  have  any  error  which  the  husband  might  have  fallen 
into  corrected  early,  lest  the  whole  of  their  days  of 
married  life  should  be  passed  in  shadow.  This  was 
one  of  her  ways  of  doing  good,  and  she  determined 
to  go  and  visit  them  in  their  own  home. 

One  who  had  seen  less  of  the  world  than  Aunt  Clara 
would  have  been  surprised  at  such  a  development  of 
Marion's  character  as  a  wife,  for  she  used  to  dis 
course  most  beautifully  on  the  self-sacrificing  devo 
tion  which  a  wife  should  cherish  for  her  husband. 
This,  however,  was  before  she  had  tried  it,  —  it  was 
when  she  was  in  love. 

But,  beautifully  as  she  talked,  her  old  aunt 
knew  that  it  was  one  thing  to  preach,  and  quite 
another  to  practise ;  that  sentiment  would  not 
sugar  selfishness  long  ;  and  that  Greek  and  Hebrew 


104  THE   HUSBAND    OF   A    BLUE. 

were  but  cold  comforts  to  a  man  who  must  buy 
them  with  a  moody  and  exacting  wife. 

The  more  she  saw  into  the  state  of  things,  the 
more  bold  she  became  in  her  exposure  of  them. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you  to-day  ? "  said 
she  once  to  Marion. 

"  Matter  ?     Nothing,  —  why  ?  " 

"  I  see,  the  moment  your  husband  comes  iu,  you 
take  up  your  book  and  go  to  reading ;  and  the  more 
gently  he  speaks  to  you,  the  more  offish  you  are." 

Marion  colored  deeply,  —  she  was  both  offended 
and  ashamed.  She  "  offish,"  —  and  to  her  husband, 
—  and  others  seeing  it !  This  was  a  picture  with 
out  varnish,  but  she  saw  its  truthfulness  at  once. 
With  a  sudden  and  strong  impulse  of  right  feeling, 
she  determined  to  make  amends  for  the  wrong 
she  had  done,  and  retrieve  her  character.  When 
next  her  husband  entered,  he  saw  that  a  change 
had  come  over  her  mood ;  her  glance  was  full  of 
affection,  and  her  looks  and  words  were  kind  and 
genial.  She  seemed  willing  to  beg  that  the  past 
might  all  be  forgotten.  He  gladly  met  this  feeling 
with  a  sympathizing  kindness,  and  a  generous  for 
getful  ness. 

This  unusual  sunshine,  seeming  like  the  light  of 
the  bridal  times,  lasted  many  days.  Aunt  Clara 
wished  —  she  began  even  to  hope  —  that  a  new 
day-star  had  arisen  on  their  path,  and  that  Marion, 


THE   HUSBAJJD   OF   A    BLUE.  105 

having  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  faults,  had  deter 
mined  to  mend  them. 

But,  alas  !  that  new  day-star  set,  to  rise  no  more, 
on  that  unfortunate  morning,  —  the  morning  after 
ironing-day. 

Marion,  her  husband,  aunt  and  father,  happened 
to  be  together  in  her  chamber,  when  the  clean 
clothes  came  up  from  the  wash.  Aunt  Clara  began 
to  look  them  over,  carefully  selecting  such  as  needed 
mending.  In  a  few  minutes  she  had  taken  up  every 
one  belonging  to  Mr.  Ashton.  She  ran  her  hand 
first  into  one  and  another  and  another  stocking ; 
they  seemed  equally  full  of  holes. 

"  You  would  have  done  well  had  you  taken 
my  advice,"  said  she  to  Marion,  "  and  learned  to 
draw  stocking-heels  before  you  were  married." 

"  He  wears  them  out  so  fast,"  said  Marion,  try 
ing  to  lauo;h  it  off,  "  there's  no  use  in  it."  She 

O  O 

looked  over  to  Mr.  Ashton,  but  he  did  not  appear 
to  notice  her  laugh. 

"  But  look  at  this  !  "  said  Aunt  Clara,  holding 
up  a  shirt  which  was  literally  in  rags. 

"  My  child,"  said  the  father,  "  you  ought  not  to 
let  your  husband  wear  such  linen  as  that." 

"  Why,  father,  I  cannot  help  it,  unless  I  spend 
all  my  time  mending  for  him,  —  and  I  am  no  sewer ; 
and,  besides,  I  think  the  washerwoman  tears  them." 

"  It  is  your  business  to  attend  to  it,  Marion." 


106  THB   HUSBAND   OF    A   BLUE. 

"  Well,  father,  I  did  tell  him  he  must  order  a 
new  set,  but  he  forgets  it.  I  do  not  know  what  he 
needs." 

Again  she  looked  imploringly  at  her  husband ;  he 
said  not  one  word  to  excuse  her.  She  felt  his 
silence,  and,  much  offended  by  it,  she  resumed  her 
cold,  proud  look,  and  a  book.  The  chilliness  which 
now  pervaded  her  room  soon  scattered  her  friends, 
and  when  left  alone  she  put  the  tattered  linen  out 
of  sight  in  her  trunk,  sat  down,  and  burst  into 
tears.  "  How  foolish  she  had  been  to  marry  ! "  was 
now  the  burden  of  her  thoughts.  "  How  utterly 
unfitted  did  she  find  herself  for  domestic  life  ;  how 
unfortunate  that  her  passion  for  literary  pursuits 
should  have  been  so  strong  !  But,  then,  ought  she 
to  be  blamed  for  the  domestic  discomfort  which  re 
sulted  from  it  ?  Did  she  not  give  her  husband  full 
warning  of  what  he  might  expect  ?  Certainly  ;  and 
was  it  not  therefore  unjust  in  him  to  imply  by  his 
manner  such  a  censure  of  her  ?  Was  it  not  a  poor 
return  for  all  that  affection  which  she  cherished  for 
him  ?  "  Marion  had  wrought  herself  up  to  a  high 
state  of  excitement.  Indeed,  her  abused  nerves  had 
become  so  sensitive  as  to  be  irritated  by  the  most 
trivial  causes. 

In  this  state  Mr.  Ashton  found  her.  She  did 
not  raise  her  head  as  he  entered.  He  approached 
her  table,  sat  down,  and  coolly  went  to  reading.  Ma- 


THE    HUSBAND    OF    A    BLUE.  107 

rion's  color  went  and  came  like  stormy  clouds  in 
March  ;  and  as  the  rain  stopped  the  wind  rose,  — 
in  other  words,  her  tears  ceased,  and  her  temper  was 
up.  Still  she  kept  silent,  and  the  silence  became 
rather  awkward.  Mr.  Ashton  was  watching  every 
change  in  her  varying  countenance.  He  could  not 
immediately  conquer  all  the  pride  in  his  own  heart, 
which  was  urging  him  also  to  keep  silence  ;  but  soon 
his  more  generous  love  for  Marion  got  the  victory, 
and  he  spoke. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  so  unhappy,  Marion  ;  you 
are  distressing  yourself  needlessly." 

"  I  presume  I  am  able  to  judge  of  that,"  was  her 
short  reply,  uttered  in  a  tone  which  she  immediately 
regretted.  Mr.  Ashton  bit  his  lip. 

"  If  anything  has  gone  wrong  which  I  can  rem 
edy,  I  shall  be  glad  to  do  so,"  said  he. 

"  It  is  too  late  to  hope  for  a  remedy,"  said  she. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  remark,  Marion  ? 
Are  you  already  hopelessly  wretched  ?  " 

"  Yes,  at  times"  (she  was  in  a  better  mood)  ;  "  I 
am  suffering  daily  from  just  those  troubles  which  I 
most  feared.  I  am  wholly  unfitted  for  domestic 
employments ;  and  you  are  unhappy  because  I  do 
not  give  them  my  thoughts  and  time.  You  do  ex 
pect  from  me  a  degree  of  attention  to  them  which 
you  gave  me  to  understand  that  you  should  not 
expect.  You  have  deceived  me  in  this  matter." 


108  THE   HUSBAND    OF    A    BLUE. 

"  Marion,"  said  Mr.  Ashton,  rising,  and  speaking 
hastily,  "  I  have  not  deceived  you  in  this  matter,  or 
any  other.  I  tell  you  now,  as  I  told  you  then,  that 
I  am  ready  to  make  any  sacrifices  to  promote  your 
happiness.  But  will  it  promote  your  happiness  to 
be  exempted  from  all  domestic  care  ?  Is  there  any 
woman,  married  or  unmarried,  who  can  get  through 
life  without  it  ?  And,  if  she  could,  would  she  be  any 
the  better  woman  for  it  ?  " 

He  left  the  room  hastily.  He  had  never  before 
spoken  reprovingly  to  his  wife;  she  felt  it,  and 
again  burst  into  tears.  When  she  went  to  the  tea- 
table  her  eyes  were  red  and  swollen,  and  Aunt 
Clara  had  no  faith  in  the  "  headache  "  which  was 
offered  as  an  apology  for  their  appearance ;  besides, 
had  it  been  only  that,  Marion  would  not  have  treated 
her  husband  with  such  marked  politeness,  or  retired 
so  early  alone. 

That  something  had  gone  wrong  she  was  the  more 
convinced  from  Mr.  Ashton's  appearance.  He 
frequently  sighed,  as  he  silently  paced  the  parlor 
back  and  forth.  Aunt  Clara  took  up  the  paper, 
that  she  might  not  appear  to  notice  his  abstraction. 
He  was  thinking  of  his  wife ;  and  he  shrank  from 
acknowledging,  even  to  himself,  that  he  could  not 
please  her,  excepting  by  letting  her  have  her  own 
way.  He  tried  the  rather  to  excuse  her  irritability, 
on  the  ground  that  she  confined  herself  so  closely  to 


THE    HUSBAND    OF    A    BMJK.  109 

her  studies  that  her  health  was  poor.  He  wished 
that  she  would  study  with  more  moderation,  it 
would  be  so  much  better  for  her.  He  was  very  un 
happy  while  her  faults  only  were  present  in  his 
heart,  for  he  loved  her.  He  sought  to  direct  his 
attention  from  them.  He  recalled  the  days  of 
their  early  acquaintance.  He  remembered  noble 
sentiments  which  she  had  then  enthusiastically  ex 
pressed,  and  which  had  seemed  almost  to  awaken 
new  powers  in  him.  He  remembered  how  she  had 
excited  his  ambition,  and  stimulated  him  to  effort, 
and  sympathized  with  him  in  his  plans,  and  urged 
forward  his  great  pursuits.  She  was  a  remarkable 
woman.  Why  should  he,  then,  repine  because  she 
was  not  everything  ?  Ought  he  to  ask  her  to  lay 
aside  her  books  to  attend  to  him,  if  he  was  out  at 
the  elbow  and  shirtless  ?  Ah  !  he  was  getting  into 
the  dream-land ;  he  was  seeing  her  as  she  was  in  the 
bright  days  of  wooing,  when  people  are  all  soul  and 
no  body ;  and  he  found  it  no  longer  difficult  to  shut 
out  her  faults,  particularly  as  she  was  away. 

Her  presence,  alas  !  dispelled  the  bright  illusion 
of  her,  as  hope  vanishes  before  reality.  Mr.  Ashton 
found  her  wrapped  majestically  in  clouds  ;  she  con 
tinued  so  on  the  next  day,  and  the  next,  and  the 
next.  She  scarcely  broke  through  them,  even 
when  the  visit  had  closed,  and  they  took  their 
departure. 

10 


1  10  THK    HUSBAND   OF   A    BLUE. 

Aunt  Clara  was  more  dissatisfied  than  ever  with 
the  course  things  were  taking.  She  made  up  her 
mind  not  to  let  matters  rest  as  they  were,  unless 
they  should  be  proved  quite  hopeless. 

"  I  am  coming  to  make  you  a  visit,  one  of  these 
days,"  said  she  to  them. 

They  both  urged  it,  and  she  repeated  the  promise. 
Unforeseen  events  prevented  its  fulfilment  for  three 
or  four  years,  and  at  that  late  date  we  must  now 
follow  her  on  her  first  visit  to  Marion's  home. 

She  reached  their  house  about  four  o'clock,  one 
chilly  afternoon  in  November.  She  rang  the  bell 
several  times;  but,  as  no  one  answered  it,  she  opened 
*he  door,  and  had  her  trunk  placed  in  the  entry. 
Looking  round  for  a  mat,  she  at  length  espied  a 
.piece  of  one  in  a  corner,  lying  in  a  sea  of  mud.  She 
entered  a  sitting-room ;  it  was  cold,  cheerless,  un- 
swept  and  undusted ;  books,  maps,  pamphlets  and 
papers,  were  scattered  here,  there  and  everywhere ; 
broken  toys  strewed  the  floor,  and,  from  several 
chairs  being  tipped  up  and  tied  together,  it  was  evi 
dent  that  a  stable  was  kept  there  by  some  little  one, 
who  liked  to  have  his  horses  ready  harnessed.  Aunt 
Clara  made  her  way  to  the  kitchen  ;  a  ragged  Irish 
girl  was  just  preparing  to  answer  the  door-bell. 

"  Mrs.  Ashton  ?  "  she  said,  as  soon  as  she  could 
collect  her  wits. 


were 


THE   HUSBAND   OF   A   BLUE.  Ill 

"  Mrs.  Ashton  was  in  her  study,  ma'am,  if  you 
would  plase  to  walk  up  there." 

Aunt  Clara  thought  it  would  have  been  quite  as 
well  had  Mrs.  Ashton  been  out  of  it ;  but  she  went 
up  stairs  as  directed.  She  found  Marion  bent  over 
a  table,  which  was  laden  with  books.  Her  hair  was 
unbrushed,  and  she  was  still  in  her  morning  dress  ; 
but  she  threw  down  her  pen,  and  gave  her  aunt 
cordial  greeting. 

"  Why  did  you  not  let  me  know  that  you 
coming  ?  "  said  she.  "  I  certainly  would  have  dressed 
up.  Do  sit  down  and  get  warm.  I  am  afraid  the 
Ere  is  all  out  down  stairs  ;  but  be  very  quick  about 
it,  Aunt  Clara,  for  I  have  something  to  show  you  in 
the  next  room." 

"  I  will  see  it  now,"  said  Aunt  Clara. 

Marion,  with  great  delight,  exhibited  the  owner 
of  the  harnessed  horses,  and  his  little  baby  sister, 
who  was  in  the  arms  of  a  chalky- faced  young  girl. 
Marion's  children  made  so  odd  an  appearance,  Aunt 
Clara  could  scarcely  keep  from  laughing.  The  boy 
had  outgrown  his  clothes  in  every  direction,  and 
looked  pretty  much  as  a  half-bushel  bag  would  with 
a  bushel  of  meal  in  it ;  while  the  baby  was  quite 
lost  in  the  quaint,  old-fashioned,  faded  gear,  which 
her  brother  had  put  off.  Yet  Marion  was  proud  of 
them  ;  it  made  no  difference  to  her  how  they  looked, 
if  they  were  comfortable.  Aunt  Clara  knew,  at  a 


112  THE   HUSBAND    OF   A   BLUB. 

glance,  that  whatever  Marion  might  have  learned  in 
the  last  few  years,  she  had  not  learned  to  attend  to 
common  things. 

Under  Mr.  Ashton's  direction,  a  fire  was  kindled 
below,  the  sitting-room  cleared  up,  and  Aunt  Clara 
was  welcomed  with  the  best  he  had  to  ofier.  She 
was  soon  quite  domesticated  with  them,  and,  as 
usual,  began  to  make  herself  useful.  There  was 
no  danger  of  her  not  finding  enough  to  do  in 
Marion's  house,  where  everything  was  at  loose 
ends. 

But  Mr.  Ashton  became  at  length  uneasy.  It 
seemed  to  him  Aunt  Clara  was  always  righting  his 
disorderly  rooms,  or  sewing  for  his  shabby  children. 
He  was  painfully  observant  of  the  fact,  that  Marion, 
in  her  carelessness  and  ignorance,  taxed  her  female 
visitors  almost  unmercifully.  She  was  always  so 
much  behind-hand,  and  there  was  so  much  which 
must  be  done,  she  wanted  to  make  everybody  sew 
for  her.  Her  husband  frequently  left  the  room  to 
avoid  the  mortification  of  seeing  these  wants  pressed 
in  such  a  manner  upon  her  friends  that  they  could 
not  refuse  to  meet  them.  He  was  anxious  lest  Aunt 
Clara's  kindness  should  be  abused,  and,  without  ap 
pearing  to  censure  Marion,  he  wished  to  prevent  it. 
One  day,  when  alone  with  her,  he  expressed  the 
wish  that  she  would  not  devote  so  much  of  her 
time  to  his  family.  Marion,  he  hoped,  would  be 


THE   HUSBAND    OF    A   BLUE.  113 

less  busy  by  and  by,  and  would  attend  to  those 
things. 

"Do  not  give  yourself  the  least  trouble  about 
me,"  said  Aunt  Clara ;  "  I  have  known  Marion 
longer  than  you  have.  I  shall  work  just  as  much 
for  her  as  I  have  a  mind  to,  and  no  more." 

Mr.  Ashton  saw  that  she  understood  it,  and  would 
manage  properly,  and  his  mind  was  at  rest. 

Aunt  Clara  spoke  more  plainly  than  she  might 
have  done,  had  it  not  happened  that  on  that  very 
morning,  when  she  was  present,  Marion  had  placed 
some  sewing-work  in  a  friend's  hands  before  she  had 
time  to  take  her  things  off.  A  slit  must  be  mended 
before  the  boy  could  go  into  the  street. 

Aunt  Clara  tried  to  apologize  for  Marion  to  the 
lady,  and  she  was  displeased  by  it.  So,  after  this, 
she  silently  took  her  own  course,  and  gradually 
managed  all  the  domestic  concerns  in  her  own  way, 
hoping  that  Marion  would  look  on  and  learn.  The 
house  became  orderly  ;  the  parlor  was  always  warm 
and  cheerful,  with  a  welcoming  look  for  a  caller. 
The  children  were  well  dressed.  Mr.  Ashton  began 
to  take  them  out  with  him  frequently,  when  he 
found  they  could  be  made  ready  at  a  short  notice.. 
The  table,  also,  became  neater,  and  the  food  moxe 
wholesome.  Mr.  Ashton  began  to  realize,  as  he 
had  never  yet  done,  how  much  comfort  there  can  be 
in  a.  home.  Even  the  servant-girl  became  more  tidy 


114  THE   HUSBAND   OF   A   BLUE. 

and  industrious,  when  there  was  some  one  to  look 
after  her.  Marion  looked  on,  but  did  not  learn, 
though  in  fact  she  observed  these  changes  less  than 
her  husband  did ;  she  had  become  indifferent  to  dis 
comforts  which  were  of  her  own  choosing. 

But,  after  a  time,  she  began  to  observe  some  other 
things,  to  which  she  was  not  wholly  indifferent.  She 
could  not  but  see  that  Mr.  Ashton  talked  much  more 
with  Aunt  Clara  than  she  herself  did ;  and  she  could 
not  understand  what  he  found  so  agreeable  in  her 
conversation.  It  was  never  on  those  literary  topics 
which  interested  her.  Yet,  somehow  or  other,  Mr. 
Ashton  came  oftener,  and  remained  longer  in  his 
cheerful  parlor,  engaged  in  cheerful  chat  with  Aunt 
Clara,  than  he  had  ever  done  before.  Marion  began 
at  length  to  feel  a  little  hurt  at  this,  and  her  manner 
gradually  became  cold  and  distant  towards  her  hus 
band.  She  indulged  in  this  foolish  and  unamiable 
mood  so  long,  that  it  finally  terminated  in  a  serious 
attack  of  jealousy,  not  precisely  understood  even  by 
herself.  She  became  somewhat  cold  and  distant  to 
Aunt  Clara.  Marion  Ashton  jealous  of  her  old 
aunt !  Yes,  it  mast  be  confessed  ;  for,  had  not  her 
husband  been  unjust  enough  to  bestow  upon  her 
smiles  and  attention,  which  she,  his  wife,  had  some 
times  demanded  in  vain  ?  And  was  not  his  too 
evident  comfort  in  her  management  a  continual 
reproof  to  her  ?  Did  it  not  say  in  plain  terms  that, 


THE   HUSBAND    OF    A    BLUE.  115 

after  all,  he  did  value  domestic  accomplishments 
more  than  much  learning  ?  If,  therefore,  she  could 
not  be  appreciated,  she  chose  to  keep  out  of  the  way. 
She  shut  herself  up  still  more  closely  in  her  study ; 
but  her  husband  was  now  so  accustomed  to  manifest 
ations  which  he  could  find  no  cause  for,  that  he 
became  somewhat  regardless  of  them. 

So  far  as  he  was  concerned  in  this  matter,  the 
truth  was  that  he  did  enjoy  a  great  deal  in  Aunt 
Clara's  society.  He  found  in  it,  what  he  seldom 
found  in  that  of  his  wife,  recreation.  He  also  had 
his  studies,  and  his  great  pursuits,  and  he  frequently 
came  weary  from  his  labor  to  find  Marion  also  wea 
ried  or  excited  from  the  same  causes.  When  she 
was  excited,  she  expected  from  him  an  equal  degree 
of  interest  in  her  studies.  He  must  snap  asunder 
at  once  the  thread  of  his  own  meditations,  that  he 
might  take  up  hers.  Often  this  was  wearisome  to 
him  ;  it  required  a  degree  of  effort  which  he  was 
indisposed  to  make,  for  unfortunately  his  literary 
tastes  and  pursuits  lay  in  a  different  line  from 
hers. 

This  she  knew,  and  when  in  a  genial  mood  she 
would  sometimes  discourse  honeyed  words  on  the 
propriety  of  her  dropping  her  own  studies,  and  tak 
ing  up  his  ;  —  pleasant  words  these  to  hear,  but,  like 
that  choice  perfume  breathed  only  when  the  dew 
lies  on  the  flower,  their  sweetness  perished  early. 


116  THE   HUSBAND   OF   A   BLUE. 

Somehow  and  somewhere,  no  one  could  say  where, 
exactly,  a  rivet  had  been  loosened  from  a  link  in 
that  chain  which  bound  Marion's  sayings  and 
doings  together ;  they  fell  apart  as  soon  as  drawn 
upon. 

Her  husband  profited  more  by  the  great  truths 
and  sentiments  to  which  she  frequently  gave  expres 
sion  than  she  herself  did.  Often  they  rekindled  the 
fires  of  enthusiasm  for  him,  invigorated  his  ambition, 
purified  his  motives,  and  gave  him  courage  for  a  new 
start.  In  thinking  of  her,  he  acknowledged  this  with 
gratitude ;  but,  alas  for  poor  Marion !  she  derived 
no  such  benefit  from  her  own  aspirations.  It  seemed 
.as  if,  just  in  the  ratio  in  which  her  intellect  was  cul 
tivated,  her  heart  was  neglected.  Selfishness  took 
complete  possession  of  it,  and  ruled  and  reigned 
there.  To  subdue  this,  she  needed  precisely  the 
discipline  which  domestic  life  urged  upon  her  every 
hour  in  the  day.  It  called  loudly  upon  her  to  for 
get  herself,  and  live  for  others ;  but  she  would  not 
heed  the  call. 

Her  husband,  the  more  he  saw  of  life,  and  of  the 
proper  sphere  of  woman,  became  the  more  convinced 
of  Marion's  errors.  Sometimes  he  would  try  and 
make  her  view  it  in  the  light  in  which  he  did,  but 
he  never  could  succeed. 

"  What ! "  she  would  reply,  "  spend  her  time  on 
those  trivial  affairs  which  engross  most  women  ?  It 


THE   HDSBAND   OF    A   BLUE.  117 

would  kill  her ;  life  would  not  be  worth  the  having, 
if  she  must  hold  it  on  such  terms.  Pray,  what  was 
her  intellect  given  her  for  ?  " 

Did  he  venture  to  suggest  "  that  the  tone  of  the 
intellect  is  elevated  by  that  of  the  heart,  and  that 
no  duty  is  to  be  despised  which  cultivates  a  virtue 
there,"  Marion  fell  into  tears  or  melancholy,  or, 
what  was  worse,  struck  upon  her  sentimental  vein. 
This  her  husband  much  dreaded ;  for,  when  she  was 
in  this  mood,  she  tormented  herself  and  him  with 
her  perfectly  visionary  ideal  of  married  life  and  love. 
He  had  never  reached  it,  and  when  charged  with 
undue  cultivation  of  her  intellect  she  would  retort 
upon  him  his  very  imperfect  cultivation  of  the  affec 
tions.  "  Hud  he  loved  her  as  once  he  professed  to 
do,  he  would  not  be  so  ready  to  discover  faults  in 
her.  The  difficulty  was  not  in  her,  but  in  some 
inexplicable  change  in  his  love  for  her." 

This  topic  was  a  frequent  source  of  unhappiness 
between  Marion  and  her  husband.  At  length  she 
did  not  hesitate  to  tell  him  "he  had  fallen  so  far 
below  the  true  standard  of  conjugal  affection,  that  it 
was  best  for  them  both  to  make  up  their  minds  that 
they  could  have  but  a  very  moderate  share  of  enjoy 
ment  in  each  other's  society."  Marion  would  arrive 
at  this  conclusion  very  heroically,  and  yet  never 
seem  to  make  up  her  mind  "  to  be  contented." 
Many  an  expression  of  wounded  feeling  was  uttered, 


118  THE   HUSBAND   OF   A   BLUE. 

to  make  her  husband  unhappy.  She  knew  they 
were  undeserved,  and  he  suffered  much  in  silence ; 
"  the  heart  knoweth  its  own  bitterness." 

It  is  therefore  accounted  for  why  Aunt  Clara,  on 
her  visit  there,  found  Mr.  Ash  ton  a  grave,  hard 
working,  still  man.  It  had  been  brought  about,  not 
by  affliction  or  poverty,  but  by  the  continual  want 
of  sunshine  in  his  home  and  in  his  heart.  He  had 
but  few  gleams  of  it,  and  these  came  only  when 
everybody  and  everything  bent  to  Marion's  reigning 
mood  and  whim. 

Yet  he  loved  her,  with  all  her  faults,  and  his 
affection  for  her  exposed  him  to  another  source  of 
suffering.  He  wished  to  screen  her  from  the  world's 
censure,  and  he  could  not  always  do  it.  Marion 
required  her  husband  to  stand  with  shield  and  buck 
ler  on,  and  to  stand  at  his  post,  and  to  parry  even 
scattering  and  almost  aimless  shots.  She  thought 
that  not  a  breath  of  censure  should  p&ss  unreproved 
in  his  presence.  This  duty  he  was  faithful  in,  but 
it  made  a  stern  man  of  him  ;  for  Marion  did  merit 
censure,  and  this  he  knew.  So  did  Aunt  Clara,  and 
she  (dear,  kind  soul!)  lay  awake  many  nights,  think 
ing  what  could  be  done.  That  Marion,  with  all  her 
learning  and  talents,  should  make  her  home  so  cheer 
less,  and  contribute  so  little  to  the  comfort  of  her 
nearest  and  dearest,  seemed  to  Aunt  Clura  a  sin  and 
a  shame.  But,  let  her  lie  awake  as  she  would,  she 


THE    HUSBAND    OF    A    BLUE.  119 

found  no  way  of  mending  the  matter  ;  so  again  and 
again  she  fixed  upon  the  time  for  her  return  to  her 
friends,  but  yet  did  not  go.  Mr.  Ashton  and  the 
children  hud  become  so  dependent  upon  her,  she  did 
not  see  how  they  could  get  along  without  her. 

This  was  the  position  of  affairs  one  blustering  day 
in  March.  The  wind,  blowing  up  under  the  carpet, 
made  the  sitting-room  so  cold  it  had  to  be  aban 
doned.  Aunt  Clara  retired  with  the  children  to  the 
nursery ;  Marion  and  Mr.  Ashton,  as  usual,  were 
each  in  their  study.  A  ring  at  the  door  announced 
unexpected  company,  and  a  clergyman  and  his  lady 
were  announced.  Mr.  Ashton,  when  in  England, 
had  spent  some  time  in  the  family  of  this  lady,  and 
he  had  been  most  hospitably  entertained.  He 
wished  much  to  return  their  kindness.  He  came  up 
to  his  wife's  study. 

"  Marion,"  said  he,  hurriedly,  "  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Graves,  of  whom  you  have  heard  me  speak  so  often, 
are  here.  They  will  spend  the  night  with  us." 

"  .Dear  me !  "  said  Marion,  "  what  is  to  be  done  ? 
We  have  not  a  mouthful  of  cake  in  the  house."  She 
threw  down  her  pen,  and  looked  much  disturbed. 

"  Never  mind  the  cake,"  said  her  husband ;  "  do 
let  us  give  them  a  cordial  welcome.  They  are  anx 
ious  to  see  you." 

"  But  we  must  have  some  cake,"  said  Marion, 
reluctantly  pushing  by  her  books.  It  was  charac- 


120  THE   HUSBAND   OF   A   BLUE. 

teristic  of  her,  that  if  ever  she  did  give  her  mind  to 
domestic  concerns,  she  became  very  tenacious  of 
little  things.  "  Where  is  Aunt  Clara  ?  " 

"  I  will  go  and  see,"  said  Mr.  Ashton. 

"  No ;  I  '11  tell  you,"  said  she ;  "  you  must  just 
run  down  to  Mr.  Parker's,  and  borrow  a  plateful  of 
cake,  while  Bridget  starts  the  fire." 

"Do  what?"  said  Aunt  Clara,  now  entering. 
Marion  reported  the  direction. 

"He  shall  do  no  such  thing,"  said  Aunt  Clara, 
almost  vexed  with  her.  "  How  you  would  look 
sending  your  husband  out  to  borrow  cake  !  I  should 
be  ashamed  of  it,  if  you  were  not." 

"  There  is  not  the  least  impropriety  in  his  going 
to  Mrs.  Parker,"  said  Marion,  coolly,  "  and  I  wish 
him  to  go."  She  was  evidently  irritated  by  Aunt 
Clara's  interference. 

Mr.  Ashton  looked  troubled.  He  seemed  to  be 
between  the  horns  of  a  dilemma.  Should  he  leave 
dis  friends  and  go  out  to  a  neighbor's  to  borrow  cake  ? 
The  impropriety  was  too  glaring.  But  Marion 
vished  him  to  go,  and,  should  he  oppose  her,  she 
would  probably  be  silent,  moody,  and  appear  exceed 
ingly  uninteresting;  for  her  sake,  therefore,  as 
usual,  he  sacrificed  his  own  feelings. 

"  Don't  be  anxious  about  it,  Marion,"  said  he ;  "I 
will  attend  to  the  tea-cake.  I  will  go  as  soon  as 
you  can  come  down." 


THE   HDSBAND    OF   A   BLUE.  121 

She  looked  at  Aunt  Clara,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  You 
will  learn  that  I  am  the  one  who  is  to  be  pleased, 
and  not  you."  "  It  will  take  me  some  time  to 
dress,"  said  she  to  her  husband,  in  a  resigned  tone. 

Under  Aunt  Clara's  directions  the  fire  in  the  par 
lor  was  soon  kindled,  and  she  herself  went  in  to  bid 
the  guests  welcome,  long  before  Marion  was  ready. 
Mr.  Ashton  slipped  out  to  execute  his  wife's  disa 
greeable  commission.  If  he  accomplished  the  ob 
ject,  however,  he  felt  at  liberty  to  choose  his  own 
way  of  doing  it.  He  hunted  up  a  boy,  and  de 
spatched  him  off  about  a  mile  to  a  bakery,  to  buy 
the  best  tea-cake  which  could  be  obtained. 

On  his  return  he  found  an  encouraging  fire  crack 
ling  in  the  kitchen  stove,  and  busy  preparations  for 
cooking  being  made.  Quite  assured  that  Aunt 
Clara  was  at  the  helm,  and  that  between  her  and 
the  baker  there  would  be  comfort  and  abundance  at 
his  table,  he  joined  his  friends. 

He  found  Marion  in  the  parlor,  well  dressed. 
The  clouds  had  all  vanished  from  her  brow,  —  van 
ished  immediately,  before  the  cordial  and  affection 
ate  greeting  with  which  her  husband's  friends  met 
her.  The  consciousness,  also,  that  she  had  carried 
her  point  with  regard  to  the  tea-cake,  made  it  easy 
for  her  to  be  amiable.  But,  having  thus  asserted 
her  first  claim  to  be  pleased,  she  was  now  quite 
willing  to  throw  the  care  of  all  further  domestic 
11 


122  THE   HUSBAND   OF   A   BLUE. 

arrangements  on  Aunt  Clara,  which  she  did  very 
quietly,  devoting  herself  wholly  to  the  entertainment 
of  her  guests  in  the  parlor.  She  found  them 
remarkably  intelligent  and  agreeable.  She  was  par 
ticularly  pleased  with  Mrs.  Graves.  There  was  a 
quiet  dignity  and  self-possession  in  her  manner, 
strikingly  the  reverse  of  Marion's,  who  was  so  vari 
able  and  excitable.  The  one  shone  with  a  meteoric, 
the  other  with  a  calm  and  steady  light ;  and  Mari 
on's  discerning  eye  soon  discovered  a  degree  of  finish 
to  the  English  lady's  character  which  she  thought 
very  remarkable.  Involuntarily  she  paid  it  the 
homage  of  a  respect  which  was  seldom  offered  by 
her  to  a  woman,  —  not  even  a  literary  one.  She  no 
longer  wondered  why  Mrs.  Graves  had  so  much 
excited  Mr.  Ashton's  admiration. 

During  the  short  visit  which  these  friends  made, 
Marion  saw  plainly  enough  that  some  principles  had 
been  at  work  in  the  finishing  of  this  truly  admir 
able  character  which  thus  far  had  not  had  a  feather's 
weight  in  the  formation  of  her  own.  At  the  tea- 
table  (where,  by  the  way,  no  cake  was  visible,  but 
some  of  Aunt  Clara's  make,  —  that  from  the  bakery 
not  being  presentable),  the  conversation  turned  acci 
dentally  upon  housekeeping  in  America,  and  from 
thence  branched  off  upon  the  necessity  of  domestic 
knowledge  for  a  woman  everywhere. 

"  Well,"    said    Mrs.    Graves,  in  her  quiet  and 


THE   HUSBAND   OF   A   BLUE.  123 

beautiful  manner,  "  I  love  my  books;  but  I  think 
my  husband  can  answer  for  me,  that  I  never  open 
my  writing-desk  until  every  domestic  duty  is  per 
formed.  I  do  not  neglect  him,  or  his  house,  for  my 
studies.  I  think  a  woman  loses  more  than  she 
gains  by  such  a  course." 

This  remark,  casually  dropped,  made  a  great  im 
pression  upon  Marion.  She  blushed  painfully,  as  if 
it  had  been  intended  for  her.  Could  it  be  possible 
that  Mrs.  Graves  devoted  any  considerable  portion  of 
her  time  to  simple  domestic  duties  ?  Mrs.  Graves, 
who  was  a  proficient  in  almost  as  many  languages  as 
Marion  herself ;  who  wrote  with  even  more  effect  ; 
who  seemed  at  home  on  every  literary  topic  which 
was  introduced;  whose  scientific  information,  even, 
was  not  defective ;  —  how  had  she  accomplished 
it? 

Marion  felt  reproved  and  humbled.  Might  it  not, 
after  all,  prove  true,  that  there  was  some  such  mys 
terious  connection  between  a  woman's  intellect  and 
her  heart  that  the  one  could  never  develop  its  full 
vigor  unless  the  heart  grew  strong  with  it;  and 
that  in  the  charmed  duties  of  a  home  must  it  exer 
cise  its  best  affection  ?  A  glimpse,  through  a  narrow 
vista,  to  a  distant  but  glorious  land,  worth  possess 
ing,  opened  before  Marion.  She  might  have  kept 
her  eye  fixed  upon  it  and  travelled  thither ;  but,  alas 
for  the  poor  heart  which  has  been  left  to  the  rule  of 


124  THE   HUSBAND    OF   A   BLUE. 

selfishness !  it  is  a  slave,  and  "  the  good  which  it 
would  do  it  does  not,  for  evil  is  present  with  it." 
Marion  quickly  turned  away  her  thoughts  from  this 
reproving  view  of  things,  and  devoted  herself  with 
new  zest  to  the  entertainment  of  their  guests. 

When  Mrs.  Graves  was  talking,  she  had  involun 
tarily  glanced  at  her  husband  ;  and  she  read  in  his 
countenance  his  most  hearty  approval  of  her  senti 
ments.  Yet  he  had  delicately  forborne  even  to  raise 
his  eyes  to  Marion,  lest  he  also  should  seem  to  imply 
a  reproof.  Marion  was  not  insensible  to  this  kind 
ness,  and,  secretly  desirous  to  convince  him  that  she 
had  not  sacrificed  so  much  to  her  studies  in  vain,  a 
determination  to  make  him  proud  of  her  seized  her. 
She  became  exceedingly  animated,  —  she  became 
very  brilliant  in  conversation.  She  brought  forth 
from  her  store-house  treasures  new  and  old.  Her 
mind  struck  out  light  on  every  subject.  Even  her 
husband  was  surprised ;  he  had  never  witnessed 
such  a  display ;  he  did  look  upon  her  with  pride 
He  basked  in  the  glory  with  which  she  seemed  so 
suddenly  to  be  illuminated,  and  forgot  his  sorrow. 
"  Yes,  a  house-keeper  he  could  hire,  but  where  could 
be  found  another  woman  like  Marion  Gray  ?  " 

What  a  pity,  indeed,  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Graves 
remained  but  one  day  !  or,  rather,  what  a  pity  that 
Marion  could  not  sustain  that  heavenward  flight 
which  made  her  husband  at  once  so  proud  and  so 


THE   HUSBAND   OF   A    BLUE.  .125 

happy !  But  they  left,  and  the  wing  of  genius 
flagged,  drooped,  and  heavily  came  Marion  back 
to  earth.  Her  nerves  had  long  ago  been  worn  out, 
by  the  too  constant  and  exclusive  exercise  of  the 
brain ;  she  could  not  therefore  bear  a  season  of 
great  excitement,  without  a  corresponding  one  of 
great  depression.  It  was  well  for  her  reputation 
with  Mr.  Ashton's  friends  that  they  did  not  see  her 
on  the  week  following  their  visit. 

She  was  so  irritable  and  nervous,  it  was  almost 
impossible  to  live  with  her.  Even  her  husband 
found  his  patience  too  much  tried,  and  he  kept  most 
of  the  time  in  his  study.  Aunt  Clara  also  avoided 
her.  She  thought  such  irritability  perfectly  inex 
cusable,  particularly  in  a  young  mother.  She  felt 
inclined  to  scold  her,  as  she  would  have  done  a  cross 
child ;  but  she  had  now  learned  that  Marion  would 
receive  no  reproof  from  her,  and  refrained.  But 
this  led  her  to  the  conclusion  that,  as  no  great  good 
would  be  accomplished  by  her  longer  stay,  she  had 
better  return  home  on  ths  following  Monday.  Be 
fore  Monday  came,  Marion  was  ill  in  bed  with  a  low 
nervous  fever,  and  Aunt  Clara  would  not  leave  the 
family  in  such  a  condition. 

This  illness  proved  a  very  trying  one.  Marion 
was  just  ill  enough  to  be  unable  to  do  anything,  and 
not  sufficiently  ill  to  bo  quiet  about  it.  She  fretted 
a  great  deal ;  mere  trifles  worried  her.  She  became, 


126  THE   HUSBAND   OF   A    BLUE. 

also,  most  exacting  and  unreasonable  in  her  demands 
upon  her  husband's  attentions.  Not  a  cup  of  tea 
would  she  take,  unless  Mr.  Ashton  had  sugared  it ; 
not  an  article  of  food  was  thought  palatable,  unless 
he  had  seen  to  its  preparation.  At  length  her  nerv 
ousness  increased  to  such  an  extent,  she  declared  it 
was  impossible  for  her  to  live,  unless  her  husband 
read  almost  constantly  to  her.  This  he  did  pa 
tiently,  leaving  his  own  work,  frequently  by  the 
hour.  She  would  not  let  Aunt  Clara  relieve  him. 
It  was  melancholy  to  see  how  selfish  and  nervous  a 
life  exclusively  devoted  to  books  had  made  her. 

The  fever  at  length  turned,  though  it  seemed 
as  if  it  never  would,  and  Marion  was  pronounced 
convalescent.  Days  passed,  and,  though  the  disease 
had  apparently  left  her,  yet  she  did  not  get  up. 
She  was  still  in  her  room,  being  read  to,  and  abat 
ing  not  an  iota  of  her  demand  upon  her  husband's 
time  and  sympathy.  The  physician  at  length  hinted 
to  her  that  it  would  expedite  her  recovery  if  she 
would  exert  herself  more.  Marion  was  not  much 
pleased  with  this  advice,  and  was  still  less  so  when, 
on  the  following  morning,  he  took  his  leave,  assuring 
her  "  that  she  might  now  get  about  again."  Soon 
after,  her  husband  came  in  to  excuse  himself  from 
reading  to  her.  He  was  preparing  an  article  for  the 
forthcoming  number  of  the  "  North  American,"  and 
he  had  already  given  up  so  much  of  his  time  to  her, 


THE   HUSBAND   OP   A   BLUE.  127 

that  if  he  should  devote  any  more  he  would  be  obliged 
to  work  nights  to  make  up  for  it.  It  was  curious  to 
see  how  selfishness  and  pride  struggled  together  with 
Marion.  She  wished  the  article  to  appear,  —  it  was 
a  good  one,  and  would  do  credit  to  her  husband,  — 
but  she  did  not  know  how  to  deny  herself  the  pleas 
ure  of  being  read  to.  So  she  continued  to  call  upon 
him  when  she  became  nervods ;  then,  as  soon  as 
reading  had  somewhat  soothed  her,  she  would  take 
the  book  into  her  own  hand,  and  say  to  him.  "  Come, 
now,  run  into  your  study  and  write  while  you 
can." 

What  could  be  accomplished,  with  such  broken 
time  ?  Still  he  patiently  endured  it  without  complaint, 
trusting  that  each  day  of  interruption  would  be  the 
last,  and  that  Marion  would  be  quite  restored  on  the 
morrow.  But  days  and  days  passed,  and  there  was 
she  still  in  the  same  notch.  She  was  able  to  be 
about  the  house,  and  even  to  go  out  of  doors,  but 
still  required  just  the  same  attention  to  her  personal 
comfort,  and  still  left  the  whole  charge  of  her  fam 
ily  on  Aunt  Clara.  Aunt  Clara  became  uneasy,  at 
length.  She  told  Mr.  Ashton  that  something  must 
be  done  to  make  Marion  exert  herself,  or  she  would 
be  miserable  all  winter.  Mr.  Ashton  decided  that  it 
was  best  to  talk  reasonably  with  her,  and  try  to  per 
suade  her,  for  her  own  sake,  to  rouse  herself  to 
effort,  if  not  in  her  study,  at  least  about  her  house. 


128  THE   HUSBAND   OF   A   BLUE. 

But  Marion  would  not  listen  to  reason.  She  only 
burst  into  tears. 

"  No  one  would  believe  there  was  anything  the 
matter  with  her ! "  she  said ;  "  even  the  doctor  called 
it  all  nervousness.  The  time  was  coming  when 
they  would  find  out  their  error,  to  repent  of  it  too 
late.  She  certainly  had  not  expected  her  husband 
to  enter  into  the  league  against  her.  She  thought 
he  knew  how  much  effort  it  required  for  her  to  live 
at  all ;  but,  if  she  was  such  a  burden  to  every  one,  she 
would  find  some  way  of  relieving  them  of  it."  Ma 
rion,  after  delivering  herself  of  this  heroic  speech, 
retired  to  her  chamber,  and  locked  herself  in.  Mr. 
Ashton  looked  pale  and  agitated ;  he  was  much 
troubled.  His  first  impulse  was  to  follow  her,  and 
seek  to  soothe  her ;  he  feared  such  a  state  of  excite 
ment  might  again  throw  her  into  a  fever.  Aunt 
Clara  prevented  him.  "  Now,  do  not  go  to  her,  Mr. 
Ashton,"  said  she;  "you  will  undo  all  you  have 
done.  Let  it  work  a  while.  Marion  is  too  sensible 
not  to  see  its  truth.  If  she  is  ever  to  get  out  of  this 
state,  it  must  be  done  by  her  own  self-control." 

This  was  true,  and  Mr.  Ashton  felt  it  to  be  so. 
He  therefore  went  into  his  own  study.  When  there, 
he  found  it  required  the  strength  of  an  iron  will  to 
keep  his  mind  on  his  work.  He  was  unhappy  and 
perplexed.  He  scarcely  knew  what  to  do  next  for 
Marion.  It  seemed  as  if,  in  one  way  or  another, 


THK   HUSBAND    OF    A    BLUE.  129 

she  had  been  an  obstacle  to  his  advancement  ever 
since  their  marriage.  At  first  he  had  been  obliged 
to  supply  many  of  her  deficiencies  in  the  domestic 
line,  which  had  used  his  time, —  obliged  to  in  order 
to  keep  his  family  together ;  and  of  late  her  shat 
tered  nervous  system  had  made  still  heavier  drafts 
upon  him.  But,  with  an  energy  which  few  can  ap 
preciate  excepting  those  who  have  conquered  just 
such  difficulties,  Marion's  husband  toiled  on,  and 
fought  the  battle  of  life  bravely  in  the  ranks  where 
he  had  been  called  ;  and  already,  though  still  but  in 
the  prime  of  life,  was  receiving  his  reward.  His 
talents  and  virtues  were  acknowledged  with  grate 
ful  respect  by  the  world,  though  they  sometimes 
remarked  that  he  was  a  grave  man,  and  of  stern 
manners.  What  wonder  was  it  ? 

While  he  was  then  toiling  at  his  study-table, 
Marion  was  pacing  her  room  in  great  excitement. 
Her  mind  fastened  upon  the  idea  that  she  was  a 
burden  to  her  husband.  Suddenly  the  thought 
struck  her  that  she  would  quietly  run  off  for  a  day 
or  two,  and  visit  a  friend  of  hers.  This  would 
relieve  her  husband  from  his  burden  for  a  short  time, 
and,  if  he  should  chance  to  be  anxious  about  her,  it 
would  perhaps  be  only  a  just  punishment  for  having 
allowed  himself  to  get  weary  of  her.  Marion  soon 
showed  how  much  strength  she  could  command,  for 
she  dressed  hurriedly,  and,  stealing  softly  out,  walked 


130  THE   HUSBAND   OF    A    BLUE. 

rapidly  a  distance  of  two  miles,  to  her  friend's 
house.  No  one  knew  that  she  had  gone.  The  dinner 
hour  arrived,  but  she  did  not  make  her  appearance. 
Mr.  Ashton  was  disturbed ;  he  rose,  at  length,  to  go 
to  her  room.  "  Do  not  trouble  yourself,  Mr.  Ash- 
ton,"  said  Aunt  Clara,  very  coolly  ;  "  I  will  send  up 
Marion's  dinner,  shall  not  I  ?  " 

Mr.  Ashton  saw  the  wisdom  of  this  arrangement, 
and  he  sat  down  again.  It  was  true  she  ought  not 
to  be  longer  indulged  in  mere  whim.  The  dinner 
was  sent  up  by  Bridget,  who,  however,  soon  returned 
with  it.  "  She  had  knocked  and  knocked,  and 
no  one  answered  ;  so  finally  she  opened  the  door 
and  went  in,  and  Mrs.  Ashton  was  n't  to  be  found, 
high  nor  low." 

Mr.  Ashton   looked  at  Aunt  Clara,  and  Aunt 
Clara  at  Mr.  Ashton.    What  did  this  mean  ?    Both 

started  at  the  same  instant.     The  house  was  searched 

• 

but  in  vain.  The  idea  flashed  into  Mr.  Ashton's 
mind,  and  haunted  him,  "  She  may  be  insane." 
He  was  seriously  anxious.  Where  could  Marion 
have  gone,  and  why  had  she  gone  so  stealthily  ? 
Aunt  Clara  looked  very  sober.  She  thought  it  noth 
ing  more  than  one  of  Marion's  freaks,  but  a  very 
blamable  one.  Mr.  Ashton  went  out ;  he  walked 
up  and  down  the  street ;  he  inquired  of  the  neigh 
bors  ;  he  could  get  no  trace  of  her.  He  became 
still  more  alarmed.  Aunt  Clara,  seeing  his  distress, 


THE   HUSBAND    OF    A   BLUE.  131 

refrained  from  saying  what  she  wished  to,  —  "  Let  her 
alone  ;  she  will  come  home  by  and  by."  At  last 
she  remembered  that  Marion,  only  the  day  before, 
had  spoken  of  this  friend,  and  expressed  a  wish  to 
see  her.  She  mentioned  this  at  once  to  Mr.  Ashton. 
"  But  she  cannot  have  gone  there,"  said  he  ;  "  it  is 
more  than  two  miles  off,  and  there  is  no  way  for  her 
to  get  there." 

"  She  has  walked,"  said  Aunt  Clara ;  "  she  is 
stronger  than  you  think  for." 

Mr.  Ashton  went  immediately  out,  obtained  a 
buggy,  and  drove  rapidly  to  the  friend's  house.  There, 
sure  enough,  he  found  her.  She  met  him  with  a 
forced  glee.  "Ah  !  did  you  get  frightened  about 
me  ?  "  she  asked.  "  I  thought  you  were  all  so  worn 
out  with  me,  I  would  run  away  a  while."  Her  hus 
band  looked  at  her,  but  returned  no  answering  smile. 
He  had  but  little  to  say.  Marion's  conscience  did 
all  the  talking.  She  made  some  hurried  inquiries 
about  the  children,  to  which  he  briefly  replied.  She 
got  herself  ready  speedily,  and  stepped  into  the  bug 
gy  ;  but  that  was  a  silent  ride  home.  Marion  first 
tried  the  agreeable;  her  husband  replied  kindly, 
but  without  interest,  and  was  silent  when  she  ceased. 
Then  she  tried  to  excuse  what  she  had  done ;  but 
a  poor  excuse  she  made  of  it,  for  she  took  the 
course  which  she  did  designedly  to  make  him  suffer, 
and  she  knew  it.  He  received  her  apologies  with- 


132  TIIE    HUSBAND    OF    A    BLUE. 

out  comment.  As  a  last  resort,  Marion  tried  tears  ; 
but  they  fell  on  stony  ground.  Her  husband 
brought  her  to  her  own  door,  helped  her  out,  and 
drove  home  with  the  horse. 

Marion  was  ashamed  when  she  saw  Aunt  Clara, 
and  did  not  know  what  to  say  for  herself.  She  had, 
in  truth,  lost  her  own  self-respect ;  and  she  fell  into 
a  moody  silence,  which  lasted  through  that  day  and 
evening. 

After  breakfast  on  the  following  morning,  Aunt 
Clara  announced  that,  being  all  packed,  she  intend 
ed  to  take  her  departure  in  about  an  hour  for  her 
own  home.  "  And  now,  before  I  go,  Marion,"  said 
she,  "  I  have  one  thing  which  I  wish  to  say  to  you ; 
and  you  must  not  give  it  the  go-by,  —  you  must 
think  of  it.  If  you  don't  set  about  in  earnest  con 
trolling  yourself  a  little  better  than  this,  and  don't 
live  for  something  else  besides  yourself  and  your 
books,  your  husband  will  be  wretched,  your  children 
will  go  to  destruction,  and  you  will  end  your  days 
in  a  mad-house." 

Marion  tried  to  excuse  herself  to  her  good  old 
aunt,  who  had  been  a  mother  to  her ;  and  she  tried 
to  make  her  forget  the  past,  and  promise  to  come  to 
them  very  soon  again. 

Aunt  Clara  would  make  no  such  promise.  "  I 
shall  come  no  more,"  said  she,  "  until  you  have 
learned  to  take  care  of  your  own  family.  It  is  your 


THE   HUSBAND    OF    A    BLUE.  133 

business,  and  not  mine ;  and  you  never  will  do  it,  if 
there  is  anybody  can  be  made  to  do  it  for  you." 

Aunt  Clara  left,  and  gradually  the  household 
returned  to  its  old  elements  of  dirt  and  confusion. 
The  difficulty  in  bringing  about  a  reform  lay  in 
31arion's  will.  She  had  energy  enough,  and  good 
sense  enough,  but  she  had  no  will  for  any  work  but 
head-work. 

Mr.  Ashton  struggled  many  years,  still  toiling  wp 
with  his  double  load.  At  length,  as  might  have  been 
anticipated,  his  health  gave  way ;  for,  of  all  men  in 
the  world,  a  student  most  needs  the  comforts  of  a 
cheerful,  orderly  home.  Physicians  advised  Mr. 
Ashton  to  go  abroad  again ;  indeed,  they  deemed  it 
absolutely  necessary.  He  went,  therefore,  and  this 
contributed  towards  separating  him  still  further  from 
Marion.  He  could  not  move  in  her  eccentric  orbit. 
From  year  to  year,  with  shattered  nerves  and  fret 
ted  temper,  she  studied  on,  and  would  do  little  else ; 
and  thus  earned,  by  a  criminal  neglect  of  the  great 
duties  of  her  life,  the  reputation  of  a  "  deep  Blue." 
This  was  what  she  gained  ;  —  who  can  estimate  her 
loss  ?  Her  husband,  made  strong  by  nobly  endur 
ing  suffering,  became,  at  length,  one  of  the  great  men 
of  his  day. 

Little  did  Marion  think,  on  the  day  when  she 
placed  her  white-gloved  hand  in  his,  that,  in  the  final 
summing  up  of  the  results  of  her  life,  its  most  import- 
12 


134  THE   HUSBAND    OF   A    BLUE. 

ant  item  would  be  the  effect  which  her  character 
as  an  affliction  had  had  upon  the  work  and  influence 
of  her  husband.  Could  she  have  had  a  glimpse  of 
this,  it  is  not  certain  that  she  would  not,  even  on  that 
her  wedding-day,  have  taken  her  first  lesson  in  run 
ning  stocking-heels,  inasmuch  as  this  should  have 
stood  representative  of  a  long  line  of  similar  efforts 
for  the  comfort  of  others,  to  whom  she  pledged  her 
self,  and  which  would  have  resulted  in  making 
her  the  less  a  Blue,  but  the  more  a  true  woman, 
thoroughly  wise  and  learned  in  many  things.  She 
might  have  ascended  the  meridian  with  her  husband  ; 
and  who  can  tell  how  much  their  united  light,  "  shin 
ing  more  and  more  unto  the  perfect  day,"  might 
have  done  towards  illuminating  the  dark  places  of  a 
wicked  world  ?  But  she  sought  out  other  inventions, 
which  broke  up  that  union  which  would  otherwise 
have  been  the  source  of  great  power  to  two  so  highly 
educated  minds. 


THE   WIFE   OF  A  STUDENT. 

MRS.  DUNLAP  was  sitting  in  her  parlor,  one  after 
noon,  alone,  sewing,  when  her  servant  entered,  and 
handed  her  a  letter.  She  saw  instantly  that  it  was 
from  her  son  Prescott.  She  allowed  it  to  remain  a 
few  moments  on  her  knee  unopened ;  for  she  knew 
the  boy  would  not  have  written  so  soon  again,  had 
he  not  been  in  trouble,  and  she  was  in  no  haste  to 
prove  her  forebodings  true.  It  was  with  a  heavy 
heart  that  she  at  length  broke  the  seal,  and  read  it. 
Her  fears  were  more  than  realized.  Prescott  was  in 
great  trouble,  and  he  wrote  beseeching  his  mother 
to  persuade  his  father  to  consent  to  his  leaving  Am- 
herst  College,  for  Yale.  "He  did  not  like  Am- 
herst,"  he  said  ;  "  he  had  never  wished  to  go  there. 
He  went  only  because  his  father  insisted  upon  it ; 
and  now  he  had  made  the  trial,  he  was  more  dis 
satisfied  than  ever.  Nothing  had  gone  right  with 
him  from  the  first ;  and  if  his  father  did  not  let  him 
leave,  he  would  not  answer  for  the  consequences  !  " 
Mrs.  Dunlap  sighed  heavily;  her  work  dropped 
unheeded  upon  the  floor,  and  she  sat,  leaning  her 


136  THE    WIFE    OF   A   STUDENT. 

saddened  face  upon  her  hand,  lost  in  thought.  What 
should  she  do  ?  Go  to  his  father  ?  Certainly  she 
must,  but  not  now ;  he  was  in  his  study  now,  and 
would  not  like  to  be  disturbed.  After  tea,  should 
no  one  call,  he  would  have  a  half-hour's  leisure ;  she 
must  speak  to  him  then.  But  perhaps  he  might  not 
be  in  the  mood  to  hear  anything  which  would  trou 
ble  him.*  Often,  after  a  day  of  study,  he  was  quite 
exhausted,  and  seemed  to  endure  nothing  which 
would  ruffie  him  ;  he  needed  soothing.  Should 
this  be  the  case  when  Prescott's  request  was  made 
known,  it  would  receive  an  irritated  refusal.  Pres- 
cott  had  been  at  college  about  six  months,  and  thus 
far  his  complaints  had  been  made  only  to  his  mother; 
and  she  had  kept  them  to  herself,  for  she  saw  that 
it  would  answer  no  good  purpose  to  tell  them  to  his 
father.  Having  once  decided  to  send  his  son  to 
Amherst,  he  would  insist  upon  his  staying  there. 
Mrs.  Duulap  never  thought  of  questioning  the 
soundness  of  his  judgment,  in  the  selection  which 
he  had  made  of  a  college  ;  but,  admitting  it  to  be 
the  best,  she  did,  from  the  first,  question  the  policy 
of  forcing  the  boy  to  go  there,  against  his  will.  She 
felt  almost  convinced  that  Prescott  would  not  remain 
there,  and  thought  it  would  be  wise  to  yield  to  his 
wishes,  and  remove  him.  But  how  should  she  make 
Mr.  Dunlap  think  so?  This  was  one  of  those  import 
ant  matters,  in  relation  to  his  children,  which  he 


THE   WIFE   OF    A    STUDENT.  137 

made  a  business  of  regulating ;  and  his  •wife  had 
learned,  by  long  experience,  that  when  he  undertook 
to  accomplish  any  particular  thing,  it  was  almost 
impossible  to  change,  or  even  modify,  his  plans.  She 
dared  not  hope  that  she  would  succeed  in  the  present 
instance  ;>and  yet  it  seemed  very  important  that  she 
should,  for  she  was  convinced  that,  if  Prescott  was 
not  taken  away,  he  would  be  sent  away ;  and  such 
a  commencement  of  college  experience  in  her  family 
of  boys  was  an  event  very  much  to  be  dreaded. 

The  afternoon  slipped  away,  as  she  sat,  lost  in 
thought,  trying  to  arrange  in  her  own  mind  her 
arguments  in  her  plea  for  her  boy.  The  children 
came  in,  noisy  from  school.  It  was  a  windy  day, 
and,  as  they  ran  tramping  through  the  house,  they 
left  here  and  there  a  door  on  the  latch.  A  strong 
gust  blew  open  the  outer  door,  the  wind  sucked 
through  the  hall,  and  slam-bang,  bang,  went  one 
and  another,  here,  there  and  everywhere.  It  was 
like  a  small  discharge  of  artillery.  Mrs.  Dunlap 
started  ;  she  knew  the  noise  would  jar  on  the 
nerves  of  her  student-husband,  and  she  was  very 
anxious  that  he  should  be  undisturbed. 

"  Softly,  softly,"  she  said  to  the  boys  and  girls,  fol 
lowing  quickly  after  them,  to  fasten  doors ;  "  softly; 
you  will  disturb  your  father.  How  the  wind  blows ! 
Maurice,  do  lock  that  front  door." 

Maurice  did  as  he  was  bidden,  and  then,  full  of 


138  T11E   WIFE   OF   A   STUDENT. 

life  and  spirits,  came  romping  with  the  children 
into  the  parlor,  making  as  much  noise  as  a  young 
hurricane. 

"  Not  quite  so  much  noise  in  the  house,  children ! ;> 
said  she.  "  Go  out  of  doors,  if  you  wish  to  romp  ; 
your  father  has  not  left  his  study  yet." 

This  was  an  old  story,  and  it  made  no  great  im 
pression  ;  the  children,  of  course,  were  ignorant  of 
those  circumstances  which  made  it  particularly 
desirable  that  their  father  should  be  kept  quiet  just 
now.  They  softened  down,  therefore,  only  at  inter 
vals,  when  their  mother's  voice  was  heard,  and  for 
got  it  a  moment  after.  When  the  tea-bell  rang, 
she  was  wearied  out  by  her  efforts  to  keep  the 
peace. 

As  Mr.  Dunlap  entered  the  tea-room,  his  wife 
looked  up  anxiously,  to  see  what  were  the  signs  of 
the  times.  As  usual,  he  appeared  serious  and  weary, 
and  her  observing  eye  detected  a  slight  contraction 
of  the  eyebrow,  which  said  something  had  disturbed 
him. 

"  What  has  been  the  occasion  of  so  much  noise  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  It  is  a  very  windy  day,"  replied  Mrs.  Dunlap, 
"  and  I  could  not  prevent  the  doors  from  slamming 
when  the  children  came  home  from  school." 

"  I  should  think  they  were  old  enough  to  know 
how  to  shut  doors  after  them  ! "  was  the  reply. 


THE   WIFE   OF    A    STUDENT.  139 

Mrs.  Dunlap  did  not  wish  to  continue  this  con 
versation.  She-  poured  a  cup  of  tea  hastily  for  the 
student,  and  passed  it.  She  was  agitated  ;  her  color 
was  deepened,  and  her  movements  were  rapid.  She 
was  very  watchful,  that  no  petty  annoyances  should 
irritate  him.  She  helped  the  children  before  they 
had  time  to  request  it,  and  introduced  cheerful 
topics  of  conversation.  She  wished  to  divert  the 
student's  mind,  compose  his  nerves,  and  raise  his 
spirits.  He  had  been  all  day  in  his  study,  hard  at 
work,  and  was  quite  exhausted  by  his  labor;  and  yet, 
in  truth,  in  no  one  hour  had  he  made  so  much  effort 
as  his  wife  was  now  making,  with  a  saddened  heart, 
to  quiet  the  children  and  comfort  him.  But  such 
was  her  life,  —  one  of  effort,  which  no  one  knew  and 
appreciated,  but  herself  and  God. 

The  children  were  excused  from  the  table  as  soon 
as  possible,  and  Mr.  Dunlap  sipped  his  last  cup  of 
tea  in  silence.  Evidently  his  thoughts  were  still  at 
the  study-table.  He  was  preparing  an  address,  to 
be  delivered  before  a  literary  society,  and  was  unu 
sually  absorbed  in  it.  Now,  the  only  half-hour 
which  could  ever  be  depended  upon  for  his  family 
was  the  one  immediately  after  tea,  and  Mrs.  Dunlap 
felt  that  she  must  speak  then,  if  ever. 

"  I  have  had  a  letter  from  Prescott,  this  after 
noon,"  said  she,  timidly. 

"What  —  again?    He  writes  often,  —  any. news  ?" 


140  THE   WIFE   OF   A   STUDENT. 

"  Yes,  he  is  very  anxious  I  should  beg  you  to  let 
him  go  to  Yale." 

"  Nonsense !  how  can  he  ask  such  a  thing,  after 
what  I  have  said  to  him  about  it  ?  Does  the  boy 
think  I  shall  consent  to  his  running  away  from  col 
lege  every  time  he  takes  a  fancy  to  do  so  ?  Tell  him 
that  /  say  he  is  to  go  through  at  Aniherst,  and  I 
expect  him  to  go  through  honorably.  I  will  write 
to  him  as  soon  as  this  address  is  off  my  hands." 

"  But,  Mr.  Dunlap,  I  am  afraid  you  do  not  appre 
ciate  the  boy's  feelings  in  the  matter.  From  the 
very  first  he  was  unwilling  to  go  to  Amherst.  At 
one  time  I  was  afraid  he  would  give  up  trying  to 
get  a  profession,  simply  on  this  account.  For  some 
reason  or  other,  his  heart  was  fixed  on  going  to 
Yale.  I  have  feared  he  would  not  do  well,  and  I 
am  still  afraid  that  he  is  not  doing  well.  Every 
letter  brings  some  new  trouble,  and  some  new 
complaint." 

"  There  is  nothing  in  that  worth  minding,"  said 
Mr.  Dunlap ;  "  he  talked  very  reasonably  with  me 
about  it;  at  least,  he  made  no  great  opposition  to 
it,  —  not  as  much  as  I  expected." 

31  rs.  Dunlap  sighed.  She  knew  Prescott  better 
than  his  father  did;  but  she  could  not  say  this. 
Prescott  respected  his  father,  and  loved  him ;  but  he 
was  not  intimate  with  him,  and  he  was  intimate  with 
his  mother.  His  father  had  been  too  busy  to  seek 


THE   WIFE    OF    A    STUDENT.  141 

^friendship.  Mr.  Dunlap  was  devoted  to  great 
pursuits,  which  occupied  his  time  and  absorbed  his 
energy ;  and  when  he  came  among  his  children,  he  was 
generally  weary,  and  he  did  not  care  to  have  them 
with  him,  unless  they  could  amuse  him.  He  had  no 
strength  to  bestow  upon  them,  and  for  their  training 
no  space  was  left  in  his  busy  days.  He  did  not 
intend  to  neglect  them,  but  somehow  they  slipped 
along  from  childhood  to  youth,  and  before  he  knew 
it  the  spring-time  was  on  the  wane,  the  summer 
even  passing.  Now  and  then  some  great  occasion 
was  important  enough  to  arrest  his  thoughts  and 
attention,  and  then  he  took  hold  of  it  in  earnest ; 
but,  as  he  must  act  without  a  very  thorough  acquaint 
ance  with  his  children,  it  was  as  often  miss  as  hit. 
It  proved  so  with  regard  to  his  choice  of  a  college. 
Had  he  understood  Prescott  as  well  as  he  did  the 
great  educational  interests  of  the  state,  he  would  not 
have  opposed  his  wishes  by  such  absolute  commands. 
Those  wishes  were  unreasonable.  True ;  but  a 
gentler  authority  from  the  father  might  have  been 
an  argument  to  prove  this  to  the  quick  feelings  of  the 
boy.  They  were  obstinate  wishes.  True  ;  but  a  more 
genial  persuasion  from  the  father  might  have  con 
vinced  the  boy  even  of  this,  and  made  him  ashamed 
of  it.  No  boy  could  have  been  led  more  easily  than 
Prescott  by  a  wise  parental  tact,  and  of  this 
quality  few  fathers  have  had  less  than  Mr.  Dunlap. 


142  THE   WIFE   OP  .A   STCDKST. 

No  wonder  Mrs.  Dunlap  sighed ;  it  was,  as  she 
anticipated,  of  no  avail  to  talk  to  him. 

"  Well,"  said  she,  and  her  voice  trembled  as  she 
spoke ;  "  I  cannot  help  fearing  that  he  will  get  sent 

••ay." 

"  Sent  away !  "  said  the  student ;  "  trust  me,  — 
he  knows  better  than  all  that.  You  are  too  anxious 
about  him,  my  dear ;  you  distress  yourself  needless 
ly.  This  is  your  first  experience  of  college  life,  and 
you  imagine  danger  where  there  is  none.  I  know 
all  about  it.  The  boy  must  stay  where  he  is,  and 
behave  himself.  He  must  have  no  freaks.  If  he 
does  not  come  up  to  the  mark,  I  '11  bind  him  out  to 
a  blacksmith,  —  you  may  tell  him  so." 

Mrs.  Dunlap  did  not  tell  him  so  ;  she  spoke  en 
couragingly  to  him ;  ventured  to  hold  out  a  little 
hope ;  suggested  the  reasonableness  of  his  remaining 
where  he  was  for  the  year,  at  least ;  if  he  did  well, 
at  the  expiration  of  that  time  they  might  think  of 
the  matter  again.  Yet  she  administered  this  com 
fort  in  very  much  the  same  state  of  mind  with  which 
the  boy  received  it,  —  doubtfully,  —  and  it  was  not 
powerful  enough  to  operate  as  a  check.  In  a  few 
days  Prescott  wrote  again.  Now  he  had  a  falling 
out  with  his  tutor,  whom  he  much  disliked,  and  he 
threatened  to  take  some  desperate  measure  if  his 
father  would  not  consent  to  his  leaving.  His 
mother's  heart  became  more  and  more  heavy.  She 


THE    WIFE    OF    A    STUDENT.  143 

felt  obliged,  not  only  to  conceal  this,  but,  in  order  to 
meet  the  exigencies  of  the  case,  she  felt  called  upon 
to  make  promises  for  which  she  had  not  the 
sanction  of  her  husband.  This  course  came  too 
near  the  line  of  double-dealing  for  her  to  pursue 
without  causing  great  pain  to  her  truth-loving 
spirit.  It  was  one  of  her  hardest  trials,  as  a 
student's  wife,  that  she  must  sometimes  deceive  her 
husband,  or  sacrifice  what  seemed  to  her  the  best  in 
terests  of  her  children.  He  was  so  intent  upon  his 
work,  ever  hammering  away  at  great  blocks  of 
truth,  that  he  entirely  overlooked  that  nice  mosaic 
of  juvenile  character  which  was  forming  itself  from 
the  every-day  concerns  of  home  life.  The  wife,  to 
save  the  children,  had  sometimes  to  wound  her 
sensitive  conscience,  and  to  bear  the  suffering  in 
silence  ;  for  this  is  one  of  the  trials  of  a  student's 
wife,  of  which  she  cannot  speak. 

A  wearisome  load  is  a  heavy  heart.  There  it 
hangs, — just  there,  at  the  centre  of  all  comfort, 
and  never  shifts  its  weight.  It  saddens  the  voice, 
and  makes  the  eyelids  heavy,  and  pales  the  cheek ; 
the  circulation  becomes  languid,  the  appetite  wavers, 
and  the  health  fails.  Mrs.  Dunlap  found  it  so 
during  those  weeks  when  Prescott  was  balancing 
between  good  and  evil.  She  longed  for,  and  yet 
trembled  to  receive,  his  letters.  To  add  to  her  anx 
iety,  her  husband's  health  began  to  decline.  He  was 


144  THE   WIFE   OF   A    STUDENT. 

overworking  himself,  and  the  results  were  wakeful- 
ness,  exhaustion,  depression  and  nervousness. 

One  evening  he  came  down,  and  threw  himself 
wearily  on  the  sofa.  "  I  am  sorry,"  said  his  wifo  to 
him,  "  that  you  undertook  this  address.  It  is  too 
much,  in  addition  to  all  your  other  labors." 

He  sighed  in  reply,  and  closed  his  eyes. 

"  I  am  almost  afraid,"  continued  she,  "  that  you 
will  not  be  able  to  go  and  deliver  it." 

"  I  certainly  shall  not,"  said  he,  "  unless  I  get 
some  sleep  to-night." 

He  looked  so  haggard,  as  he  spoke,  that  she  felt 
alarmed.  She  was  always  anxious  when  he  was  in 
this  state  ;  she  feared  disease  of  the  brain  ;  and  in 
her  anxiety  for  him  Prescott  was  forgotten. 

"  Do  not  you  think,"  said  she,  "  it  would  make 
you  a  little  drowsy  if  I  should  brush  your  hair  ?  " 

Mr.  Dunlap  making  no  objection,  she  brought 
the  brush,  and  sat  leaning  over  the  arm  of  the 
sofa,  in  a  very  uneasy  position,  brushing  his  hair. 
This  seemed  to  quiet  him,  and  she  continued  it  long 
after  she  felt  utterly  exhausted.  Indeed,  she  needed 
nursing,  even  then,  almost  as  much  as  he.  But,  com 
paratively  speaking,  of  what  consequence  was  this? 
The  public  had  no  claim  upon  her ;  no  literary 
society  would  be  disappointed  by  her  illness;  she 
did  not  think  of  herself,  but  continued  her  labor  of 
love,  until  the  student  slept ;  then,  quite  worn  out. 


THE    WIFE    OF   A   STUDENT.  145 

she  slipped  from  her  chair,  and  fell  asleep  on  the 
carpet  at  his  feet.  Several  hours  passed  before  she 
awoke,  and  when  she  did  so  she  found  by  her  stiff 
ened  limbs  that  she  had  taken  cold.  The  student 
still  slept  heavily,  and  she  therefore  softly  threw  a 
cloak  over  him,  and  went  out. 

He  slept  on,  soundly,  until  about  two  in  the 
morning.  She  went  to  bed,  but  could  sleep  no 
more.  Every  noise  startled  her ;  she  was  afraid 
something  might  happen  to  him, —  he  might  perhaps 
be  taken  ill.  But  she  could  sleep  at  any  other  time ; 
it  was  only  for  the  student,  whose  brain  was  taxed, 
that  sleep  was  of  vital  importance. 

This  wakeful  night,  and  the  cold  which  she  took, 
in  addition  to  her  anxiety  for  her  husband  and  Pres- 
cott,  made  Mrs.  Dunlap  feel  too  ill  to  wish  to  ac 
company  her  husband  when  he  went  to  deliver  his 
address.  She  would  have  excused  herself,  but  Mr. 
Dunlap  urged  the  matter.  He  thought  his  wife  did 
not  look  quite  well,  and  hoped  a  change  would  bene 
fit  her ;  find  she  was  so  accustomed  to  yield  to  his 
wishes,  that,  without  objecting,  she  made  the  effort. 
Contrary  to  her  expectations,  she  enjoyed  the  jour 
ney.  Mr.  Dunlap's  address  being  finished,  his  mind 
was  at  ease  ;  and,  his  body  being  refreshed  by  sleep,, 
he  was  ready  to  give  himself  up  to  the  enjoyment 
of  the  hour.  He  became  very  sociable  with  his- 
wife,  —  he  talked  all  the  time,  and,  more  than 
13 


146  THE   WIFE   OF   A    STUDENT. 

that,  he  was  attentive  to  her.  She  was  con 
scious  of  a  deep  sense  of  enjoyment  in  his  society, 
which  of  late  years  she  had  rarely  felt.  Heart  met 
heart,  as  in  the  days  of  early  love.  She  sat  near 
him,  —  she  looked  up  into  his  face  with  an  un 
checked  expression  of  pride  and  affection ;  she  gave 
way  to  enthusiastic  admiration  of  his  great  mind  and 
noble  principles ;  and  the  trials  of  the  student's 
wife  were  forgotten.  The  heavy  heart  became 
lighter  and  lighter  ;  Prescott's  troubles  now  weighed 
but  as  a  feather.  Sometimes  she  was  on  the  point 
of  speaking  of  them,  so  intimate  had  she  become  with 
her  student-husband  on  this  short  journey ;  force  of 
habit,  more  than  anything  else,  restrained  her. 

Sometimes  joy  works  miracles  ;  in  an  instant  the 
sad  voice  changes  its  tune,  the  eye  brightens,  and 
the  blood  runs  dancing  about  in  the  veins  again ; 
the  appetite  returns,  and  the  ailing  one  recovers. 
So  it  was  with  Mrs.  Dunlap.  The  change  produced 
in  her  by  the  real  enjoyment  of  life  for  a  few  hours 
was  wonderful.  When  she  left  home,  she  thought 
it  quite  certain  that  she  should  not  be  able  to  go 
and  hoar  her  husband ;  but  when  they  reached  the 
place  of  their  destination,  she  felt  abundantly  able, 
and  began  to  look  forward  to  it  with  pleasure. 

During  the  journey.  Mr.  Dunlap  had  noticed  the 
brightening  countenance  of  his  wife ;  and  an  awaken 
ing  consciousness  of  its  cause  disturbed  him  a  little, 


THE    WIFE   OF    A   STUDENT.  147 

and  kept  him  watchful  of  her  comfort,  when  they 
were  among  their  friends.  Much  to  her  gratifica 
tion,  and  somewhat  to  her  surprise,  he  came  to  walk 
with  her  up  to  the  church,  on  the  afternoon  when 
he  was  to  speak.  As  they  made  their  way  through 
the  crowded  aisle,  she  could  not  but  observe  the  re 
spect  with  which  they  were  treated  ;  —  that  a  path 
was  opened  for  them ;  that  several  young  gentlemen 
contended  for  the  honor  of  handing  her  to  a  choice 
seat.  She  sat  down  with  a  beating  heart ;  her 
deepened  color,  her  beaming  eyes,  plainly  expressed 
the  pleasure  which  she  felt. 

As  she  cast  her  eye  around,  she  saw  the  house 
was  crowded  to  overflowing  ;  and  when  her  husband 
rose  to  speak,  she  felt  anxious  that  he  should  meet 
the  expectation  of  that  great  throng.  She  scarcely 
breathed,  as  he,  in  a  slow,  unimpassioned  manner, 
announced  his  subject.  "  0  wait,  — only  wait,"  she 
was  eager  to  say  to  that  listening  crowd ;  "  wait, 
you  vrill  hear  something  by  and  by."  Calmly  the 
student  began  to  develop  his  plan ;  but,  as  he  ad 
vanced,  one  wave  of  thought  succeeded  another  with 
increasing  power,  —  dashed  higher,  and  more  and 
more  brilliant  became  its  sparkling  spray.  "  Now, 
now,"  she  wished  to  say,  "  listen,  you  will  have  it, 
—  hark  !  "  She  stole  side  way  glances  at  the  au 
dience  ;  she  saw  them  listening,  bowed  as  one  man. 
Now  they  were  breathless,  —  now  they  almost 


148  THE    WIFE   OF   A    STUDENT. 

sprang  to  their  feet,  —  now  a  smile,  like  an  electric 
shock,  ran  from  lip  to  lip,  —  now  they  were  stirred 
to  laughter,  and  now  melted  to  tears.  The  wife 
was  carried  away  by  this  eloquence ;  she  was  almost 
intoxicated  with  delight,  —  and  she  also  enjoyed  the 
proud  consciousness  of  herself  possessing  such 
great  power,  for  she  was  at  once  both  hearer  and 
speaker. 

In  a  silence  most  profound  he  closed.  His  last 
word,  spoken  almost  in  a  whisper,  was  heard  dis 
tinctly  in  the  most  remote  corner  of  the  room.  "When 
he  ceased,  the  silence  for  a  moment  continued  un 
broken,  and  then  one  universal  burst  of  applause 
announced  the  student's  victory.  This  was  a  mo 
ment  of  triumph,  and  Mrs.  Dunlap,  on  whom  many 
eyes  were  fixed,  as  she  stood  with  glowing  cheeks, 
modestly  waiting  in  the  corner  of  the  slip  for  her 
husband,  realized  that  the  life  of  a  student's  wife 
was  not  all  one  of  trial.  How  amply  had  she  been 
repaid  for  her  night  of  wearisome  nursing ! 

She  watched  the  retiring  crowd,  observing  with 
deep  interest  the  expression  with  which  one  friend 
would  meet  another.  All  said,  "  Well  done  —  well 
done."  Suddenly  she  started,  and  her  face  flushed 
crimson  ;  for,  as  a  large  party  near  the  door  moved 
off,  she  saw,  leaning  against  a  pillar,  Prescott ! 

He  looked  as  if  he  did  not  know  what  he  was 
about.  His  damp  hair  lay  matted  down  in  thick 


THE   WIFE    OF    A    STUDENT.  149 

curls  on  his  broad  forehead ;  his  collar  was  open, 
his  clothes  were  covered  with  dust,  and  he  was  hur 
riedly  looking  at  those  who  passed.  Mrs.  Dunlap 
waved  her  handkerchief  once  —  twice ;  he  saw  it, 
and,  springing  over  settees  and  benches,  he  reached 
her  side. 

"  Why,  mother !"  was  all  he  could  say.  He 
was  so  excited,  he  was  ready  either  to  laugh  or  to 
cry. 

"  Why,  my  son !  "  said  his  mother,  "  what  made 
you  come  ?  " 

"  Because  I  wished  to  hear  father.  Where  is  he  ? 
Was  n't  it  glorious  ?  0,  there !  " 

The  boy  was  so  completely  carried  away,  he  lost 
all  sense  of  fear.  He  forgot  himself;  he  sprang  up 
the  pulpit  stairs ;  it  seemed  as  if  nothing  would  sat 
isfy  him  but  to  grasp  his  father's  hand,  which  he  did 
with  a  force  that  nearly  overset  him. 

"  Why,  Prescott !  "  said  his  father,  in  a  tone  of 
Utter  amazement. 

"Yes,"  said  Prescott.  "0,  father!  wasn't  it 
grand  ?  I  would  not  have  lost  it  for  all  the  world ! 
I  am  so  glad  I  came !  " 

A  gentleman  standing  by  Mr.  Dunlap  burst  into 
a  hearty  laugh  at  the  enthusiastic  boy.  "  You  are 
your  father's  child,  I  see,"  said  he ;  and  Prescott, 
with  his  manly  and  speaking  face,  certainly  did 
him  no  discredit.  His  father  felt  proud  of  him ; 


150  THE   WIFE   OF   A    STUDENT. 

he  could  not  help  it ;  it  was  a  miserable  time  to 
scold  him. 

"  Prescott,"  said  he,  smiling  pleasantly,  "  I 
ought  to  scold  you." 

His  mother  saw  the  smile,  and  answered  it  in  an 
instant,  though  the  tears  were  fast  rolling  down  her 
cheeks.  It  was  such  an  infinite  relief  to  her  to  find 
that  Prescott  was  forgiven. 

Prescott  saw  his  advantage,  and  followed  it  up 
that  evening,  when  he  plead  like  a  beggar  with  his 
father  to  let  him  come  to  Yale.  His  mother  also 
plead  for  him,  but  it  was  of  no  use.  Mr.  Dunlap's 
mind  was  made  up  on  that  point,  and  Prescott  must 
go  back  to  Amherst  and  behave  himself;  so  that  he 
took  his  leave  the  next  morning  quite  dispirited.  He 
was  more  in  love  with  Yale  than  ever,  now  he  had 
been  there. 

"  I  do  not  believe  I  shall  stay  in  Amherst  the 
year  out,"  he  said  to  his  mother. 

"  For  my  sake,  Prescott,"  said  she,  "  do  as  well 
as  you  can.  I  feel  as  if  it  would  almost  kill  me  to 
have  you  sent  away  from  college.  It  would  have  a 
very  bad  influence  over  Maurice,  and  it  would  also 
make  your  father  unhappy." 

Prescott  would  make  no  promises,  and  his  rather 
unhappy  expression  at  parting  began  to  settle  heav 
ily  on  his  mother's  heart  again.  The  journey  home, 
also,  was  the  journey  after  the  fair.  The  student 


THE    WIFE    OF    A    STUDENT.  151 

suffered  from  the  reaction  of  excitement ;  he  could 
not  sleep  after  speaking,  and  this  unhinged  him. 
Mrs.  Dunlap  was  too  much  used  to  these  variations  of 
mood  tobe  surprised ;  yet  she  felt  them,  —  the  demand 
which  they  made  upon  her  sympathy  and  forbear 
ance  was  wearing.  When  she  reached  home  she  did 
not  feel  as  well  as  when  she  reached  New  Haven. 

Not  long  after  this,  Mr.  Dunlap  was  called  upon 
to  republish  some  of  his  works.  This,  in  addition  to 
his  daily  labor,  was  a  heavy  draft  upon  him,  and 
absorbed  all  his  time  and  energy.  He  had  even  less 
than  usual  to  do  with  his  family ;  if  he  had  passed 
those  months  in  Egypt,  his  wife  would  have  missed 
only  the  care  of  him. 

She  occupied  herself  with  her  domestic  duties,  and 
by  writing  to  Prescott.  Not  a  week  passed  in  which 
she  did  not  send  him  a  long  letter  to  encourage  him 
in  well-doing.  But,  notwithstanding  her  constant 
employment,  she  was  often  oppressed  by  loneliness. 
Her  children  were  too  young  to  be  sufficient  society 
for  her,  and  she  seldom  went  out,  for  Mr.  Dunlap 
was  averse  to  going.  Among  her  female  acquaint 
ances  she  had  no  intimate  friends  ;  for  when  a  lady 
marries  she  frequently  bids  farewell  to  such  friend 
ships.  The  married  she  finds  too  busy  to  seek  them, 
and  the  unmarried  are  chary  of  admitting  a  third 
party  to  their  confidence.  She  who  finds  no  com 
panion  in  her  husband  is  often  all  alone.  He  has 


152  TI1E   WIFE   OF   A  STUDENT. 

taken  her  from  social  groups,  and  placed  her  within 
a  charmed  circle,  where,  if  he  do  not  bear  her  com 
pany,  she  must  be  solitary. 

Solitary  our  student's  wife  often  felt.  Many  a 
dusky  hour,  after  her  children  were  asleep,  would 
she  sit  by  the  parlorrwindow,  thinking  anxiously  of 
Prescott.  Weary  with  her  day's  labor  she  was  too, 
for  mind  and  body  were  not  unfrequently  overtaxed, 
as  must  be  the  case  where  the  care  of  a  large  family 
falls  upon  one,  and  that  one  the  weaker  half.  Such 
was  not  God's  design  in  the  family  institution  ;  but 
"  man  has  sought  out  many  inventions,"  and  "  of 
making  books  there  is  no  end." 

At  such  times  what  a  cordial  to  her  burdened  spirit 
would  a  little  cheerful  conversation,  a  word  of  timely 
advice,  a  whisper  of  affectionate  and  encouraging 
sympathy,  have  been  ! 

What  a  relief  to  her,  could  she,  in  an  impulse  of 
womanly  weakness  not  to  be  eluded,  sometimes  have 
laid  her  head  upon  her  husband's  shoulder,  and  wept 
away  her  idle  fears !  She  believed  that  he  loved  her, 
and  yet  how  inexpressibly  grateful  to  the  yearnings 
of  her  saddened  heart  would  it  have  been,  had  this 
affection  sometimes  found  a  voice  !  The  student-hus 
band  did  not  realize  how  vital  to  the  life  of  joy  in 
her  soul  was  this  music  of  expressed  love.  He 
would  have  spent  his  last  dollar  on  her  comfort ;  he 
would  have  sent  to  India  for  a  palanquin  and  bear- 


THE   WIFE  OF  A   STUDENT.  153 

ers,  had  she  needed  them ;  but,  to  leave  his  great  work, 
to  quit  his  study-table  before  his  day's  task  was  quite 
done,  in  order  to  give  his  wife  a  little  of  his  society, 
or  to  make  an  effort  to  rise  above  his  own  languor 
and  depression,  that  sometimes  he  might  cheer  a  dull 
hour  for  her,  required  a  kind  of  sacrifice  which  he 
never  thought  it  possible  to  make. 

Neither  did  his  wife  expect  it,  nor  feel  hurt  that 
she  did  not  receive  it.  She  did  not  think  of  question 
ing  the  necessity  of  his  being  wholly  given  to  his 
work ;  yet  she  suffered  from  it,  notwithstanding. 
Those  many  dull  and  lonely  hours,  when  her  mind 
dwelt  perpetually  on  trouble ;  her  anxiety  for  Pres- 
cott,  and  for  Mr.  Dunlap  also  ;  her  anxiety  to  keep 
her  house  still,  and  the  children  from  troubling  their 
father,  —  wore  much  upon  her.  Her  health  was  seri 
ously  undermined,  and  with  ill  health  her  spirits 
failed  still  more.  She  wished  sometimes  to  divert 
herself  by  reading  ;  but  here  she  experienced  other 
trials.  She  found  that  she  had  in  a  great  measure 
lost  her  taste  for  that  reading  which  required  thought. 
Since  her  marriage  it  had  never  been  encouraged, 
and  she  very  soon  became  so  conscious  of  her  hus 
band's  intellectual  superiority  that  it  damped  her 
ardor  for  self-culture.  She  saw  plainly  enough  that 
he  had  no  great  idea  of  her  knowing  much.  She 
was  but  a  woman,  and  if  she  was  intelligent  enough 
to  converse  on  ordinary  topics,  it  seemed  to  be  all 


154  THE   WIFE   OF   A   STUDENT. 

which  he  expected.  It  never  occurred  to  him  that 
he  was  to  a  great  extent  responsible  for  the  progress 
of  that  being  which  had  been,  at  his  request,  so 
wholly  surrendered  to  his  keeping.  Often  she  felt 
painfully  the  distance  which  separated  them  ;  for  she 
was  a  woman  of  quick  perception,  but  she  could 
not,  unaided,  rise  to  him.  Occasions  were  constant 
ly  occurring  in  which  she  was  made  to  feel  this  dis 
tance.  For  instance,  at  one  time  several  gentlemen 
came  in  to  dine,  and  the  conversation  took  an  exclu 
sively  literary  turn.  She  could  not  join  in  it ;  she 
was  quite  ignorant  of  the  subjects  on  which  they 
conversed.  Her  husband  had  neither  taught  her 
nor  encouraged  her  teaching  herself.  She  did  not 
wish  to  betray  her  ignorance,  though  it  was  an  igno 
rance  for  which,  if  there  was  any  one  to  blame,  it 
was  not  she ;  she  was  therefore  obliged  to  be  silent. 
This  mortified  and  humbled  her ;  she  was  glad  to 
withdraw  to  her  own  room.  She  fastened  her  door, 
threw  herself  into  a  chair,  and  burst  into  tears.  She 
was  unusually  dispirited  and  disturbed  by  it.  It 
was  not  often  that  she  yielded  to  such  feelings,  but 
now  she  wept.  Before  her  tears  had  ceased  to  flow, 
Mr.  Dunlap  came  to  her  door  for  something ;  she 
let  him  in,  and  turned  hastily  away  to  conceal  her 
face.  She  did  not  dare  to  speak,  for  she  could  have 
given  no  account  of  those  tears ;  she  was  not  free 
enough  with  him.  He  would  have  thought  her  fool- 


THE    WIFE   OF   A   STUDENT.  155 

ish,  and  that  she  could  not  then  bear.  Mr.  Dunlap 
found  what  he  came  for,  and  went  out.  He  never 
knew  of  those  tears,  nor  of  many  others  which  his 
exclusive  devotion  to  his  books  caused. 

As  Mrs.  Dunlap  became  more  depressed,  she  had 
recourse  to  religious  reading  to  relieve  her  of  the 
burden  of  sad  thoughts.  Unfortunately,  this  reading 
was  not  judiciously  selected.  It  was  of  a  cast  which 
tended  still  more  to  discourage  her,  and  increase  her 
morbid  feelings  of  self-reproach.  She  felt  as  if,  com 
pared  with  that  of  her  husband,  her  life's  work  was 
of  little  value.  "  What,"  she  asked  herself,  "did 
she  do,  but  just  live,  day  by  day  ?  What  action  had 
she  ever  performed,  the  memory  of  which  would  live 
after  her  ?  "  In  this  questioning  she  was  very  un 
just  to  herself.  She  did  not  place  a  right  estimate 
upon  her  untiring  efforts  for  the  good  of  her  family, 
without  which  it  seemed  to  others  they  would  all 
have  been  shipwrecked.  It  would  have  comforted 
her,  could  some  one  have  whispered  or  conjectured 
of  the  possibility,  nay,  probability,  that  in  that  day 
of  final  account  when  all  things  are  righted,  it  might 
turn  out  that  the  humbler  life-work  of  the  two 
should  be  found  at  least  equal  in  value  to  the 
greater.  But  she  had  no  such  consoling  hope  for 
the  future,  and  she  could  not  feel  as  if  she  had  done 
anything  worth  living  for.  She  mourned  over  her 


J56  THE    WIFE   OF   A   STUDENT. 

faults  of  character,  and  with  this  sorrow  she  strug 
gled  alone. 

In  this  time  of  depression,  an  official  letter  from 
Araherst  requested  Mr.  Dunlap  to  recall  his  son 
immediately,  or  he  would  inevitably  be  expelled. 
This  letter  was  followed  in  a  few  hours  by  Prescott 
himself.  Much  to  his  relief,  his  father  was  not  at 
home  when  he  arrived ;  this  gave  him  the  opportu 
nity  he  much  wished  to  talk  over  matters  a  little 
with  his  mother,  and  explain  them. 

"  But,  Prescott,"  said  she,  "  your  father  will  not 
see  it  so." 

"  I  cannot  help  it,  if  he  does  n't,"  said  Prescott ; 
"  I  should  do  just  so  again.  How  soon  will  he  be 
in  ?  "  Prescott  wished  the  interview  over. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  his  mother,  looking  anx 
iously  out  of  the  window.  "  0,  there  he  is,  coming 
now  !  Had  not  you  better  go  out  and  meet  him  ?  " 

Prescott  turned  several  colors;  still  he  thought 
his  mother's  suggestion  a  wise  one.  His  father 
would  be  under  some  restraint  meeting  him  in 
public.  He  put  on  his  hat,  and  went  out.  Mrs. 
Dunlap  watched  him  from  the  window,  trembling. 
They  approached.  Prescott  held  up  his  head  bravely, 
and  offered  his  hand.  His  father  drew  back ;  he 
offered  no  hand,  —  his  manner  was  stern ;  the  two 
seemed  to  walk  almost  in  silence  to  the  house.  This 
reception  made  Prescott  angry,  and,  as  soon  as  they 


THE    WIFE   OF   A    STUDENT.  157 

came  in  lie  left  his  father,  and  went  directly  to  his 
room. 

Mr.  Dunlap  appeared  agitated  and  nervous,  —  he 
looked  pale.  Not  a  word  had  he  to  say  to  comfort 
his  wife,  and  not  a  word  had  she  to  say  to  comfort 
him.  She  made  haste  to  order  his  tea,  for  she  saw 
by  his  impatient  motions  that  he  was  in  need  of  it. 
She  could  scarcely  stand ;  she  was  glad  to  sit  at  the 
table.  The  tea-bell  rang,  and  the  children,  all  but 
Prescott  and  Maurice,  came  in. 

"  Where  is  Maurice  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Dunlap. 

"  In  brother  Prescott's  room,"  said  John.  "Pres 
cott  has  come,  father." 

"  Did  they  hear  the  bell  ?  "  inquired  the  mother. 

"  Yes,"  said  John ;  "  but  they  said  they  were  not 
hungry." 

Mr.  Dunlap  took  his  tea ;  his  wife  could  eat  noth 
ing.  She  did  not  know  exactly  whether  to  send  for 
the  boys  or  not ;  she  was  relieved  when  her  husband, 
having  finished  his  supper,  rose.  "  Send  Prescott 
to  me  when  he  does  come,"  said  he,  and  withdrew. 

The  boys  came  down  when  they  heard  the  study- 
door  close.  Prescott  was  still  angry ;  he  had  been 
telling  Maurice  how  his  father  had  received  him, 
and  had  stirred  Maurice  to  indignation. 

"  You  will  have  to  take  it  now,"  said  he,  when 
he  heard  his  father's  message;  "I  am  glad  I  am  not 
in  your  shoes." 

14 


158  THE   WIFE   OF   A   STUDENT. 

"  "Well,"  said  Prescott,  "  I  think  I  can  stand  it. 
If  he  would  only  listen  to  me,  I  could  soon  convince 
him  that  I  have  done  no  great  wrong.  He  had 
better  be  careful  how  he  does  push  matters,  for  I 
shall  not  bear  a  great  deal  more." 

His  mother  sighed  heavily ;  she  felt  that  this  was 
true,  but  it  was  in  vain  to  attempt  to  make  her  hus 
band  believe  it. 

Prescott  went  to  the  study,  and  she  to  her  room 
to  weep  and  pray  for  him.  It  was  late  when  she 
heard  him  come  out;  he  then  went  directly  to  his 
chamber.  She  followed  him,  and  found  him  stand 
ing  by  the  window,  looking  out.  She  laid  her  hand 
ou  his  shoulder. 

"  Prescott,  what  did  your  father  say  ?  " 

"  Just  what  I  thought  he  would,  mother.  Father 
does  not  understand  me.  He  does  not  understand 
men  nor  life , —  only  books,  books,  books.  He  has 
certain  rules  of  his  own,  and  if  we  do  not  come  up 
to  them,  we  may  go  whistle,  that's  all;  he  will 
have  no  more  to  do  with  us." 

"  No,  no,  Prescott ;  you  are  doing  your  father  in 
justice  now.  He  means  to  do  the  best  he  can  for 
his  boys.  He  has  their  best  interests  near  at  heart." 

"  I  know  that,  mother ;  and  yet,  for  all  that,  he 
does  just  those  things  which  are  for  our  worst  inter 
ests.  His  sending  me  to  Amherst  is  an  example. 
I  should  have  done  well,  if  I  had  gone  to  Yale." 


THE   WIFE    OP   A   STUDENT.  159 

"  Ah !  Prescott,  you  want  your  own  way ;  you 
arc  headstrong,  and  that  is  the  trouble  with  you." 

"  A  boy  ought  sometimes  to  have  his  way,  when 
his  way  is  a  reasonable  one :  but  father  has  no  idea 
of  yielding  one  iota  to  us.  We  must  think  and  act 
just  as  he  does.  He  will  find  we  will  not  do  it.  I 
am  man  enough  to  have  my  own  opinions,  and  have 
a  right  to  express  them." 

"  What  does  he  say  now,  Prescott  ?  " 

"  Says  that  I  may  stay  at  home  three  months, 
and  study  with  a  tutor,  and  then  he  will  enter  me 
at  Union.  If  I  do  not  accede  to  this,  I  may  go  and 
shift  for  myself." 

"  I  was  afraid  he  would  not  try  to  send  you  to 
college  again  anywhere,"  said  his  mother.  Much 
relieved  on  this  point,  she  sat  down  by  her  boy,  and 
talked  to  him  with  great  cheerfulness  of  his  pros 
pects.  She  sought  to  excite  his  ambition ;  and,  to 
dispel  his  anger  towards  his  father,  she  roused  his 
pride  for  him.  She  repeated  some  highly  compli 
mentary  offers  which  had  recently  been  made  to 
him,  the  flattering  attentions  which  he  had  received, 
and  the  honors  'which  had  been  paid  him.  Pres- 
cott's  enthusiasm  was  excited;  he  was  proud  that 
he  bore  his  father's  name,  he  determined  that  ho 
would  never  disgrace  it,  and  he  quite  forgave 
him  that  he  understood  books  so  well.  Union  Col 
lege  began  to  look  more  inviting,  and  for  the  first 


160  THE   WIPE   OF   A   STUDENT. 

time  he  relinquished  the  idea  of  going  to  Yale. 
This  enthusiasm  lasted  several  days.  Mrs.  Dun- 
lap's  spirits  began  to  revive,  for  Prescott  settled 
down  resolutely  at  his  books.  Had  his  father  taken 
the  trouble  to  learn  his  state  of  mind,  and  followed 
up  the  advantage  he  had  gained  wisely,  he  would 
have  saved  Prescott  and  himself  a  world  of  suffer 
ing  ;  but,  alas !  he  was  too  busy.  He  was  pressed 
on  all  sides,  and  now,  when  he  came  down  with  his 
boys,  he  was  either  nervous  or  exhausted ;  and  in 
either  state  he  was  not  able  to  bear  with  them. 
Unfortunately,  too,  he  was  suspicious  of  Prescott ; 
he  did  not  understand  him  ;  he  was  convinced  that 
the  boy  did  not  mean  to  study,  and  was  constantly 
on  the  watch  to  prass  him.  This  galled  Prescott; 
he  was  easily  irritated  by  his  father,  and  frequently 
spoke  to  him  disrespectfully.  Such  a  state  of  things 
wore  upon  Mrs.  Dunlap  very  much.  She  frequently 
sat  trembling  when  the  father  and  son  were  together ; 
she  was  on  the  alert  that  she  might  ward  off  her 
husband's  reproofs,  or  explain  away  Prescott's  re 
plies.  She  kept  on  the  watch,  that  one  should  not 
interfere  with  the  comfort  of  the  other.  She  tried 
to  cheer  the  over-worked  student  when  he  was  de 
sponding  about  his  son ;  and  she  endeavored  to 
strengthen  the  resolution  of  the  son  when  he  wished 
to  do  credit  to  his  father.  Between  them  both  she 
had  "  a  hard  row  to  hoe,"  and  there  was  no  chance 


THE   WIFE    OP   A   STUDENT.  161 

for  her  to  recruit  her  wasting  strength.  Still  she 
suffered  in  silence ;  there  was  no  one  for  her  to  com 
plain  to  but  God;  He  heard  her,  and  often  com 
forted  her,  but  from  her  student-husband  she  re 
ceived  no  comfort. 

At  one  time  the  boys  went  out  fishing,  and  the 
younger  children  were  playing  in  the  parlor.  Mrs. 
Dunlap  felt  too  weary  to  sew,  and  she  thought  she 
would  drop  her  work  and  go  into  the  study  and  read 
a  while.  There  she  should  be  undisturbed,  and  could 
rest,  while  Mr.  Dunlap  was  out  for  a  walk.  She 
went  up,  drew  the  inviting  arm-chair  near  the  win 
dow,  and  looked  about  on  the  table  and  floor  and 
shelves  for  something  to  read.  Up  in  one  corner, 
almost  out  of  sight,  she  espied  "  Doddridge's  Rise 
and  Progress."  This  was  a  book  quite  to  her  mind ; 
so  she  took  it  down,  seated  herself,  and  read.  She 
enjoyed  it,  — she  became  more  tranquil  and  happy, 
—  and  she  was  reading  a  prayer  with  devout  feel 
ings  when  the  study-door  opened,  and  her  husband 
entered.  He  looked  surprised  at  finding  her  there. 
Her  first  impulse  was  to  get  up  and  go  out,  but  on 
second  thought  she  sat  still.  Mr.  Dunlap  walked 
about  the  room,  somewhat  embarrassed ;  he  did  not 
know  exactly  how  to  go  to  work  with  her  there, 
and  besides  she  had  his  chair.  She  also  was  em 
barrassed,  yet  she  felt  that  it  was  proper  she  should 
come  there,  and  that  she  ought  not  to  be  afraid  to 
14* 


162  THE  VTIFE  OP  A  STUDENT. 

sit  a  moment  in  her  husband's  study.  She  waited 
for  a  good  opportunity  to  leave ;  she  did  not  wish  to 
do  so  abruptly  ;  so  she  kept  on  reading,  and  he,  after 
tumbling  about  his  papers,  began  to  pace  the  room 
back  and  forth.  Once,  as  he  passed  her,  he  stopped 
and  looked  over  her  shoulder,  to  see  what  she  was 
reading.  A  smile,  spiced  a  little,  a  very  little, 
with  an  expression  of  contempt,  curled  his  lip. 
From  his  hoards  of  literary  wealth  she  had  selected 
"  Rise  and  Progress."  She  did  not  exactly  see  this 
expression,  excepting  with  the  eyes  of  her  mind ;  — 
she  felt  it,  though.  When  she  had  finished  the 
prayer,  she  rose,  replaced,  the  book,  and  with  a 
pleasant  remark  left  the  study.  Mr.  Dunlap  had 
occasion  long  to  remember  this  incident. 

Prescott  and  his  father  now  began  to  disagree 
more  and  more.  Just  in  proportion  as  the  father 
liec-ame  more  strict,  the  son  became  more  wilful. 
Mr.  Dunlap  laid  great  stress  upon  obedience  to  cer 
tain  little  rules,  which  Prescott  felt  were  not  only 
arbitrary,  but  foolish.  For  instance,  he  insisted 
upon  it  that  at  just  such  an  hour  Prescott  should 
gp  to  his  room,  and  stay  there  alone  till  dinner,  and 
study.  Prescott  thought  he  was  old  enough  to 
choose  his  own  hours.  For  several  days  in  succes 
sion  he  at  one  time  vexed  his  father  by  going  off 
every  morning  on  some  excursion,  and  making  up 
for  it  by  studying  in  the  evening.  His  father  was 


THE   WIFE   OP    A   STUDENT.  163 

then  suffering  from  ague  in  the  face,  which  made 
him  unusually  irritable.  He  was  in  great  pain,  hav 
ing  hot  poultices  applied,  when  the  tutor  entered, 
with  a  flushed  and  angry  countenance. 

"  Mr.  Dunlap,"  said  he,  "  I  cannot  any  longer 
attend  to  your  son ;  he  has  insulted  me,  and  refused 
to  apologize." 

"  What  has  he  done  now  ?  "  said  his  father,  hastily. 

The  tutor  went  on  to  state  his  grievances  ;  Pres- 
cott  had  been  playing  off  some  joke  upon  him,  and 
he  considered  it  quite  an  impeachment  of  his  dig 
nity. 

"  He  shall  make  you  an  apology  which  will  sat 
isfy  you,"  said  his  father ;  "  you  may  rest  easy  on 
that  point."  Mr.  Dunlap  spoke  in  that  calm,  deter 
mined  tone,  which  his  wife  well  understood.  She 
trembled  so  violently  that  the  dish  fell  from  her 
hand  to  the  floor.  She  turned  pale,  —  her  heart 
was  filled  with  anxious  forebodings.  Mr.  Dunlap 
did  not  observe  her ;  he  threw  himself  on  the  sofa, 
and  closed  his  eyes.  Now  and  then  he  groaned ; 
once  or  twice  he  asked,  "  Has  Prescott  come  ?  " 

"  No,  he  has  not  come  yet." 

The  mother  tried  to  excuse  the  boyish  fault; 
her  husband  heard  her  in  silence.  The  outer  door 
at  length  opened ;  there  were  the  boys. 

"  Send  him  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Dunlap. 

Mrs.  Dunlap  went  quickly  into  the  entry.     There 


164  THE    WIFE   OP   A    STUDENT. 

stood  Prescott  and  Maurice,  all  in  a  glow;  with 
eyes  bright  and  shining  faces,  they  held  up  their 
long  string  of  fish. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  mother  ?  "  said  Prescott, 
almost  immediately.  "  You  look  as  pale  as  death  ! " 

"  0  Prescott ! "  said  she,  "  what  have  you  been 
doing  ?  You  must  go  right  in  to  your  father." 

"Doing!  "said  Prescott,  "nothing;  and  I  will 
go  to  him,  if  he  has  made  you  look  like  that."  His 
anger  passed  all  bounds.  Down  went  his  fish,  and 
with  flashing  eyes  he  walked  directly  into  the  par 
lor. 

"  What  have  you  said  now,  sir  ?  "  said  the  boy, 
neither  knowing  nor  caring  what  language  his  burn 
ing  indignation  found,  —  "  what  have  you  been  say 
ing  to  make  my  mother  so  unhappy  ?  " 

The  door  closed,  and  Mrs.  Dunlap  could  hear 
no  more.  She  motioned  to  Maurice  to  go  into  the 
next  room,  and  managed  to  drag  herself  up  stairs. 
She  sat  down  in  the  upper  entry.  Now  she  could 
hear  Prescott's  angry  voice,  and  now  her  hus 
band's  stern  reply.  At  length  the  parlor-door  again 
opened. 

"  Understand  me,  my  son ! "  said  Mr.  Dunlap ; 
"  you  are  to  make  that  apology,  or  you  are  hence 
forward  to  take  care  of  yourself." 

"  I  will  never  make  it  while  I  breathe  ! "  said 
Prescott,  shutting  the  door  violently.  His  mother 


THE   WIFE   OF    A   STUDENT.  J  OO 

tried  to  rise  and  come  down  to  him  ;  in  the  effort, 
she  fainted  and  fell.  Fortunately  a  servant  heard 
her,  and  came  to  her ;  but  it  was  more  than  an  hour 
before  she  was  sufficiently  restored  to  return  to  her 
suffering  husband.  lie  did  not  know  that  she  had 
fainted,  but  lay  still  with  his  eyes  closed,  quite 
exhausted  by  pain  and  excitement.  lie  looked  so 
haggard  and  unhappy,  that  she  tried  to  comfort  him. 
She,  poor  woman  !  who  so  much  needed  comfort 
herself. 

The  tea-hour  arrived,  but  no  Prescott.  Six  — 
seven  —  eight  —  nine  o'clock ;  —  no  Prescott.  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Dunlap  were  alarmed.  Maurice  went  out 
again  to  find  him,  and  brought  back  word  that  he 
had  been  seen  at  the  depot,  with  a  valise  in  his  hand, 
at  the  half-past  six  train.  His  mother  hurried  to 
his  room.  Yes,  his  valise  and  a  change  of  clothes 
were  gone.  She  went  back  to  her  own  private  sec 
retary  drawer,  —  her  pocket-book  was  missing.  It 
was  now  all  plain ;  Prescott  had  taken  his  father  at 
his  word,  and  had  gone  out  into  the  wide,  wide 
world,  alone,  to  take  care  of  himself.  His  mother 
knew  that  he  would  never  return. 

That  was  a  dreadful  night  to  those  parents ;  their 
feelings  it  would  be  in  vain  to  attempt  to  describe. 
Mr.  Dunlap  walked  his  study  until  morning.  When 
the  mother  rose  from  her  sleepless  bed,  and  dragged 
herself  down  to  meet  her  children  at  breakfast,  they 


166  TUB    WIFE   OF   A   STUDENT. 

saw,  with  amazement,  that  in  that  one  night  of  sor 
row  her  black  hair  had  turned  to  gray  ! 

She  never  recovered  from  this  shock,  though 
Prescott  soon  wrote  her,  and  relieved  her  from  some 
of  her  most  distressing  fears  ;  yet  she  felt  that  he 
was  ruined  for  life.  She  mourned  without  hope. 
She  ceased  even  to  speak  a  word  of  comfort  to  her 
student-husband.  She  failed  daily,  and  soon  took 
her  bed.  Disease  then  seized  upon  her,  and  found 
her  an  easy  prey.  She  became  very  ill.  Mr.  Dun- 
lap  was  not  alarmed  ;  he  had  become  accustomed  to 
her  fits  of  sickness  ;  he  thought  she  would  soon  get 
up  again  ;  he  was,  therefore,  astonished  when  the 
doctor,  following  him  into  his  study  one  evening, 
began  to  say,  in  his  professional  tone, 

"  Mr.  Dunlap,  I  think  it  my  duty  to  inform 
you  —  " 

"  Is  she  in  any  danger  ?"  asked  Mr.  Dunlap,  so 
hastily  that  the  physician  started,  and  hesitated. 
Mr.  Dunlap  understood  it. 

"  Call  in  counsel,  immediately,"  said  he.  "  Why 
did  you  not  tell  of  this  before  ?  Let  Maurice  take 
this  train,  and  bring  up  two  physicians  from  the 
city." 

Arrangements  were  hurriedly  made,  and  Mr. 
Dunlap  then  went  to  his  wife's  room.  The  nurse 
stole  out  when  he  entered,  and  left  him  alone  with 


THE    WIFE    OF    A    STUDENT.  167 

her.     She  lay  as  if  already  dead.     Why  had  he  not 
known  this  before  ? 

Now,  as  in  the  days  of  their  early  love,  did  she 
completely  fill  his  heart  and  mind.  He  realized,  as 
he  had  not  for  a  long  time  done,  how  precious  she 
was,  —  how  dependent  he  was  upon  her.  He  paced 
softly  back  and  forth  by  her  bed.  Recollections 
aroused  came  thronging  in  upon  him.  He  recalled 
all  her  gentle  pleading  for  Prescott,  —  why  had  he 
not  heeded  it  more  ?  In  his  distress,  it  seemed  to 
him  as  if  he  had  done  nothing  to  make  her  happy 
with  him,  —  and  now  she  might  die.  Had  he  not 
been  so  much  absorbed  by  his  literary  pursuits  that 
he  had  neglected  her  and  his  children  ?  The  thought 
was  torture  to  him  ;  but  it  would  haunt  him.  What 
had  he  done  to  lighten  her  cares,  —  to  cheer  and  com 
fort  and  strengthen  her  ?  Now  she  might  be  taken 
away.  Was  she  prepared  for  death  ?  What  was 
her  religious  hope  ?  What  had  been  her  Christian 
experience  ?  Alas  !  alas  !  here  he  was  utterly  in 
the  dark.  How  he  wished  he  had  encouraged  more 
freedom  of  religious  conversation.  He  stopped  and 
looked  at  her.  He  would  have  given  worlds  to  have 
known  her  state  of  mind,  but  he  was  ignorant  of  it ; 
he  felt  that  he  had  not  cherished  religious  intimacy 
between  them.  The  latest  manifestation  of  her  feel 
ings  which  he  could  recall  was  that  visit  to  the 
study.  He  remembered  the  devout  and  placid  ex- 


168  TIIE   WIFE   OF   A   STUDENT. 

pression  of  countenance  which  she  had  when  reading 
that  prayer.  He  clung  to  this  remembrance  for 
comfort ;  indeed,  he  felt  no  disposition  to  smile  at 
her  selection  of  "  Rise  and  Progress  "  then.  How 
he  wished  he  had  made  more  of  that  golden  oppor 
tunity  !  If  God  would  but  spare  her  life,  he  resolved 
to  profit  by  his  present  view  of  things,  and  change 
his  course. 

The  city  physicians  arrived.  They  travelled  on 
the  wings  of  the  wind,  but  death  was  there  before 
them.  There  was  no  strength  in  her  to  wrestle 
with  disease.  Without  recognizing  her  husband 
even  by  a  glance,  without  a  sign  of  her  hope  in 
Jesus,  without  a  whisper  telling  that  "  His  rod " 
and  "  His  staff"  did  comfort  her,  she  passed  away. 

When  those  last  sad  duties  (which  brought  back 
the  penitent  boy)  were  over,  Mr.  Dunlap  sat  down 
by  his  desolate  hearth,  among  his  motherless  chil 
dren  ;  he  felt  that  all  interest  and  object  in  life  had 
fled ;  there  seemed  nothing  left  worth  living  for. 
The  student  now  was  wholly  lost  in  the  husband ; 
but  this  change  came  too  late  to  benefit  the  Stu 
dent's  Wife. 


OLD    WITCH    MOLL 

AND   HEE 

BROWN   PITCHER. 

IN  the  red  school-house  in  the  town  of  R , 

many  little  hearts  beat  high,  and  eyes  sparkled,  and 
faces  beamed,  when  the  school  was  one  day  dis 
missed  early.  They  were  to  have  a  holiday,  for  it 
was  training-day,  —  the  greatest  day  in  all  the  year, 

By  twelve  o'clock  at  noon,  the  cannon  was  planted 
in  the  middle  of  the  Common,  and  the  boys  swarmed 
around  it.  Soon  the  "Militia  "  gathered,  with  knap 
sacks  on  their  backs,  and  guns  over  their  shoulders, 
and  dressed  in  their  Sunday's  best,  of  every  variety. 
Then  came  the  Light  Infantry,  in  uniform  ;  white 
pants  and  blue  coats  trimmed  with  gold  lace,  and 
red  and  white  plumes  nodding  in  their  caps ;  they 
came,  too,  with  fife  and  drum,  and  lighted  up  the 
scene  wonderfully.  At  length  were  heard  bugle 
and  horn,  and  the  clattering  of  hoofs.  Little  boys 
ran  for  the  stone  walls,  for  the  cavalry  were  coming. 
The  prancing  horses  dashed  into  the  crowd  on  the 
15 


170  OLD    WITCH    MOLl, 

Common,  and  Militia  and  Light  Infantry  retreated 
before  them.  Curveting  and  rearing,  the  horses 
were  at  last  brought  up  into  a  line  before  the  cannon. 
This  was  Capt.  Tim's  entree,  and  this  his  moment 
of  glory.  With  martial  tread  and  glittering  epau 
let,  he  mounted  the  cannon,  and,  taking  out  his 
long  paper,  called  out  in  a  stentorian  voice  :  "  Abel 
Abbott!"  "  Here !"  —  "  John  Abbott !"  "Here!" 
— r  "  John  Bigelow  !  —  John  Bigelow  .'  "  All  still. 
"  James  Bigelow  !  "  "  Here  !  "  and  so  on  to  the 
end  of  the  alphabet.  To  the  children  there  was 
something  mysterious  in  this  call  and  reply  in  odd 
tones  ;  and  particularly  so  in  the  silence  which 
succeeded  to  some  names.  Captain  Tim  was  looked 
upon  as  a  man  of  great  authority  and  renown. 

While  this  was  going  on,  people  were  coming  in 
from  all  parts  of  the  town  ;  wagon-loads  of  women 
and  children  in  holiday  attire.  Unmanageable  colts, 
too,  were  brought  by  strong  riders  for  a  breaking  in, 
at  whose  pranks  the  women  would  scream  and  the 
children  cry.  Then  last,  though  far  from  least, 
were  old  black  Cato  and  his  wife  Rose.  For  many 
and  many  xa  year  did  they  put  up  their  booth  on  the 
Common,  on  training-day,  as  punctual  as  Captain 
Tim,  and  almost  as  important.  They  sold  'lectiou- 
cakes  with  sweet  molasses  crust,  and  first-rate  spruce 
beer.  Rose,  with  her  clean  white  apron  and  shin 
ing  face,  her  smile  and  courtesy,  and  "  thank  ye 


AND   HER   BROWN   PITCHER.  171 

kindly,"  dealt  the  cake  and  received  the  coppers. 
Little  folks  peered  with  eager  curiosity  into  that 
hand,  to  see  if  there  were  no  signs  of  the  black  being 
washed  off. 

Cato,  also  in  a  white  apron,  bowed  and  smirked, 
and  cracked  his  jokes,  and  laughed  heartily  at  them, 
as  he  passed  the  beer-glass.  Training-day  was  a 
great  occasion  for  these  honest  old  folks  ;  it  bought 
their  wood  for  the  next  winter. 

When  the  order,  "  Forward  march  !  "  was  heard, 
with  drum  beating,  banner  flying,  and  fife  playing, 
the  soldiers  followed  the  gold  epaulet  of  Captain 
Tim  to  the  Three-mile  Tavern.  At  sundown  they 
returned  to  the  Common.  The  Common  then  had 
a  word  to  say ;  and  when  it  had  thundered  its  good 
night,  the  soldiers  were  dismissed. 

Those  were  good  old  times  ;  we  don't  have  them 

now  in  R .  Our  training-days  are  all  done 

away  with.  Old  Rose  and  Cato  died  long  ago.  No 
one  makes  such  cake  and  beer  now-a-days.  Our  old 
cannon  is  speechless.  How  Capt.  Tim  would  mourn 
over  it ! 

On  this  particular  day  which  we  have  had  in 
mind  Captain  Tim  went  home  tired.  No  wonder, 
for  he  had  a  long  walk  over  the  hill  and  down  into 
the  valley  where  his  farm-house  nestled.  No  laugh 
ing  children  came  running  out  to  welcome  him  at 
his  own  door,  no  smiling  wife  relieved  him  of  his 


172  OLD    WITCH   MOLL 

armor,  for  he  had  neither.  Capt.  Tim,  well  along 
as  he  was  in  life,  was  still  an  old  bachelor. 

Old  Peg,  his  housekeeper,  shook  the  dust  from 
his  "  trainer's  gear,"  as  she  called  it,  and  went  to 
work  to  get  his  supper.  Bowsen  stretched  himself 
out  under  the  table,  and  these  two  were  all  the  liv 
ing  beings  Capt.  Tim  had  about  him.  Somehow,  on 
this  particular  night,  his  company  did  not  quite  suit 
him  ;  after  the  bustle  of  the  day,  his  home  seemed 
dull.  He  had  distinct  thoughts  in  his  mind  that 
"  after  all  he  should  not  much  care  if  he  had  some 
body  younger  and  prettier  than  old  Peg  to  sit  at 
table  and  talk  to  him.  Peg  was  getting  deaf,  too, 
and  it  made  her  cross  not  to  hear." 

"I  guess  ye '11  go  to  bed  to-night  early,"  said 
she ;  "  you  've  been  tramping  all  day,  I  take  it, 
captain.  Seems  to  me  this  training  costs  more 
than  it  comes  to." 

"  Yes,  I  am  tired  enough,"  was  the  reply  ;  "  and 
I  am  going  to  bed  and  to  sleep  till  ten  o'clock,  and 
at  ten  o'clock  you  must  wake  me  up,  —  d'  ye 
hear  ? " 

"  Bless  yp,  yes  !  You  need  n't  halloo  so,  —  I  a'nt 
deaf;  and  what  upon  airth  do  you  want  to  be  waked 
up  at  nine  o'clock  for  ?  " 

"  Yes,  you  are  deaf,  —  ten  o'clock,  I  said.  I  am 
going  to  Salem." 

"  Going  to  Salem  !  "  said  Peg  ;    and  the  knife 


AND   HER   BROWN    PITCHER.  173 

dropped  from  her  hand.  "  Going  to  Salem  at  this 
time  o'  night,  arter  training  all  day  ?  Are  ye 
crazy.  Captain  Tim  ?  " 

"I  've  got  a  load  which  must  be  on  the  wharf  by 
to-morrow  morning  at  six  o'clock." 

"  Well,  mercy  on  us,  you  '11  never  live  to  get 
back  ;  you  '11  get  asleep  and  tumble  off  the  cart,  to 
be  run  over  ;  and,  besides,  the  night  is  dark  and  the 
roads  muddy.  For  pity's  sake,  why  can't  you  get 
some  one  else  to  go  ?  " 

"  It 's  my  own  job,  and  I  must  do  it ;  so  call  me 
up  at  ten." 

Capt.  Tim  got  his  nap.  Peg  sat  in  the  chimney- 
corner,  dozing  and  scolding  at  Bowsen,  until  the  old 
clock  struck  ten. 

"  It 's  ten  now,  if  you  will  be  such  a  fool,"  said 
she,  opening  his  bed-room  door. 

Capt.  Tim  allowed  himself  no  yawning  time.  His 
way  was,  if  a  thing  must  be  done,  to* do  it.  He  rose, 
put  on  his  farmer's  frock,  huge  cow-hide  boots  and 
overcoat,  in  the  pocket  of  which  was  stowed  away  a 
tinder  and  tobacco  box.  Thus  equipped,  he  lighted 
his  lantern  and  went  out  to  the  barn.  His  team  was 
already  loaded  ;  he  put  the  horses  to  it,  and  then 
being  ready  to  start,  he  went  into  the  house  once 
more  for  a  bite  of  cold  victuals.  He  asked  Peg,  but 
she  was  deafer  than  ever. 


174  OLD    WITCH   MOLL 

"  No,"  said  she,  "  they  a'nt  flung  down,  either ;  I 
hung  them  up  myself." 

"  You  are  a  fool ! "  he  grumbled,  and  helped  him 
self  to  bread  and  cheese.  "  Lock  up,  Peg,  now,  and 
go  to  bed.  I  shall  be  back  by  to-morrow  noon. 
Come,  Bowsen." 

The  night  was  chilly  and  uncomfortable.  There 
was  no  moon,  but  the  sky  was  clear,  and  the  stars 
shone;  at  least,  they  gave  light  enough  to  serve 
Capt.  Tim's  horses.  Bowsen  jumped  up  upon  the 
load,  and  went  to  sleep.  His  master  would  have 
been  glad  to  have  done  likewise,  but  that  was  out 
of  the  question.  He  kept  himself  awake  thinking 
and  whistling.  He  was  tired  of  Peg,  and  he  was 
turning  it  over  in  his  mind,  "  Whether  or  no  it 
would  cost  more  than  it  would  come  to  for  him  to 
get  married." 

His  horses  being  fresh,  trotted  briskly  on,  notwith 
standing  their  load.  When  he  had  gone  a  good  piece 
on  his  way,  a  sudden  turn  in  the  road  brought  him 
in  sight  of  a  hovel  which  stood  a  little  off  towards 
the  right.  All  alone  it  stood  ;  no  tree  nor  shrub  in 
sight.  An  intrenchment  of  logs  guarded  one  side, 
and  an  old  brick  chimney  the  other.  This  chimney 
was  blackened  and  crumbling.  Rumor  said  it  was 
blackened  by  diabolical  cookery  ;  that  there  witches 
made  their  broth  ;  and  that  after  the  death  of  any 
body  in  the  neighborhood  curious  little  bones  were 


AND    HER    BROWN    PITCHER.  175 

found  thrown  about  this  ominous  chimney.  In  this 
hovel,  much  feared  and  much  hated,  lived  Old  Witch 
Moll. 

Captain  Titn  scowled  as  he  caught  sight  of  her 
hovel.  "The  old  hag!"  thought  he  to  himself; 
"she  deserves  to  be  hung  for  the  mischief  she 
makes.  If  I  belonged  to  her  district,  I  'd  have  her 
taken  up." 

Scarcely  had  the  thought  passed  through  his  mind, 
when  his  horses  stopped,  as  if  spell-bound.  Bowsen 
sprung  up,  howling.  Capt.  Tim  struck  the  horses  a 
heavy  blow  ;  they  reared  and  plunged,  but  did  not 
advance  one  inch.  He  struck  again  ;  —  he  lost  his 
temper,  and  swore  at  them,  and  struck  again  and 
again.  He  could  see  by  the  star-light  the  whales 
he  made  in  their  flesh,  but  all  to  no  purpose.  The 
wheels  did  not  move  a  hair's  breadth.  He  dis 
mounted,  took  his  lantern  and  examined  his  team  ; 
nothing  was  out  of  order,  and  the  road  was  smooth 
and  hard.  Again  he  put  on  the  lash  ;  the  fright 
ened  and  goaded  animals,  foaming  and  rearing,  still 
made  no  headway.  Bowsen,  howling,  ran  to  and 
fro.  Capt.  Tim  now  set  down  his  lantern,  and  put 
his  shoulder  to  the  wheel.  He  might  as  well  have 
moved  the  everlasting  hills.  He  looked  over  to  the 
hovel,  —  he  was  just  in  a  line  with  it.  There  could 
be  no  doubt  Moll  had  bewitched  his  team,  and  she 
must  be  propitiated,  or  he  might  stay  where  he  was 


176  OLD    WITCH    MOLL 

until  doomsday.  If  a  thing  must  be  done,  as  I  said 
before,  Captain  Tim  knew  of  no  way  but  to  do  it ; 
so,  whistling  to  Bowsen,  to  keep  his  courage  up,  he 
started  for  the  hovel.  It  was  now  dead  of  night. 
Nine  chances  to  one,  Moll  would  be  cross,  and  would 
not  stir  liand  or  foot  to  help  him.  He  felt  in  his 
pocket  to  see  what  he  had  to  buy  her  over  with. 
Intent  upon  this,  he  stumbled  over  something,  and 
nearly  fell.  Turning  his  lantern  to  see  what  was  in 
his  way,  he  found  himself  stumbling  over  that  pile 
of  mysterious  bones !  Just  at  that  moment  Captain 
Tim  did  not  feel  much  like  laughing  at  "old  wives' 
fables." 

When  he  reached  Moll's  door,  he  pounded  on  it 
with  the  handle  of  his  whip. 

"  What 's  wanted,  this  time  of  night  ?  "  said  a 
gruff  voice. 

"A  —  a  —  poor  teamster  wants  help,"  said  Cap 
tain  Tim,  not  very  much  in  the  tone  in  which  a  few 
hours  before  he  had  called  out,  "  Forward  march  !  " 

"  Do  you  belong  to  this  dee-strict  ?  "  said  Moll, 
with  a  coarse  laugh. 

In  spite  of  himself,  Captain  Tim  shook  all  over. 
"  The  devil  certainly  helps  her,"  thought  he. 

"  The  devil  helps  me,"  said  the  same  voice,  "  does 
he  ?  Well,  ask  him,  and  perhaps  he  will  help  you ; 
so  be  off  with  yourself,  and  don't  be  waking  honest 
folks  up  at  this  time  o'  night." 


AND   HER   BROWN    PITCHER.  177 

Captain  Tim  did  not  stir.  Bowsen  had  crouched, 
silenced,  at  his  feet.  Now  another  voice,  soft  and 
pleasant,  the  sweetest  voice  the  captain  thought  he 
had  .ever  heard,  said,  "  Let 's  just  open  the  door,  and 
see  what  the  matter  is.  He  may  be  an  honest  man 
in  distress.  Don't  turn  him  away;  how  do  you 
know  but  he  has  silver  ?  " 

Captain  Tim  could  understand  this,  and  the  life- 
blood  came  back  to  his  heart. 

"  Silver,  yes,  plenty  of  it,  so  you  '11  only  start  my 
team  along,  —  that 's  all  I  want ;  then  I  '11  be  off." 

"  I  '11  open  the  door,"  said  the  same  pleasant 
voice,  "  and  Aunt  Moll  will  help  you,  if  you  can 
pay  her  well  for  it." 

The  hasp  was  lifted,  and  the  door  opened.  A 
young  girl,  with  rosy  cheeks,  bright  eyes,  and  a 
smile  like  sunshine,  stood  before  Captain  Tim.  Old 
bachelor  as  he  was,  he  could  have  fallen  on  his  knees 
before  her. 

"  My  team,"  he  stammered  out,  "  is  stuck." 

"  In  with  you,  Luce !  "  was  growled  out,  and  old 
Moll,  the  witch,  dressed  in  a  red  cloak,  stepped  be 
fore  her.  "  What 's  your  business  ?  " 

"  To  get  along  to  Salem,"  said  Tim ;  "  and  here 's 
four  silver  quarters  for  you,  if  you  will  help  me." 

"  You  a'nt  in  a  hurry  to  have  me  hung  to-night, 
then,  are  ye  ?  "  said  the  hag,  with  a  croaking  laugh. 
"  Luce,  hand  me  my  club,  and  then  be  off  to  bed." 


178  OLD    WITCH   MOLL 

Luce  did  as  she  was  bidden ;  but  first  she  looked 
iu  Captain  Tim's  face,  and  he  in  hers.  "  Good-night 
to  ye,"  said  the  captain,  "  and  thank  ye  kindly,  too. 
Can  I  do  anything  for  you  in  Salem  ?  " 

"  In  with  you,  Luce,  I  say ;  and  you,  Mr.,  come 
along,  if  you  want  any  help  from  me !  "  roared  out 
Moll.  With  rapid  strides  she  made  her  way  down 
to  the  team,  and  Captain  Tim  after  her.  There  it 
stood  stock  still,  just  where  he  left  it.  Old  Moll 
muttered  off"  a  few  words,  and  striking  the  wheels  a 
smart  blow  with  the  club,  she  chirruped  to  the 
horses.  They  started  on  the  full  gallop,  and  Bow- 
sen  after  them. 

"  Run  like  the  devil,  or  you  won't  catch  them !  " 
said  she,  with  a  loud  laugh.  Captain  Tim  dropped 
the  silver  into  her  withered  hand  and  ran ;  he  needed 
no  second  bidding.  A  good  race  he  had  of  it,  before 
he  overtook  them.  They  went,  indeed,  as  if  the  evil 
one  were  after  them.  Captain  Tim  and  Bowseu 
panted  about  alike  when  they  did  catch  up.  Bow- 
sen,  like  a  sensible  dog,  curled  down  and  napped  it 
after  his  adventure;  but  not  so  his  master.  Mr. 
Timothy  Brown's  heart  had  not  been  in  such  a  flut 
ter  since  the  day  when  he  first  put  on  his  captain's 
uniform.  It  was  not  beating  with  fear  either ;  for 
he  was  not  a  coward,  and  now  he  was  away  from 
that  pile  of  bones  he  could  think  quite  coolly  of 
Moll  and  her  club.  It  was  Luce  with  her  sweet 


AND   HER   BROWN    PITCHER.  179 

face  and  her  sweeter  smile,  who  had  mastered  him. 
What  on  earth  she  lived  with  that  old  hag  for,  he 
could  not  make  out. 

"  What  a  life  she  must  have  of  it,"  thought  he, 
"  poor  cretur  !  I  dare  say  she  has  n't  a  relation  in 
this  wide  world.  If  it  had  n't  been  for  her,  I  might 
have  been  sticking  to  the  middle  of  the  road  till  this 
time.  I  'm  sorry  for  her,  I  declare.  My  farm 
house  is  enough  better  than  Moll's  hovel,  and  she  is 
enough  prettier  than  Peg  for  a  housekeeper.  I  '11 
marry  her,  and  I  dare  say  she  '11  be  glad  on 't." 

By  the  time  he  had  arrived  at  this  conclusion,  the 
spires  of  Salem  were  just  discernible  in  the  gray 
light  of  morning.  He  was  on  the  wharf  with  his 
load  at  the  appointed  hour,  received  his  pay,  and 
then  went  to  refresh  man  and  beast  at  the  Farmer's 
Home.  Captain  Tim  sat  over  the  fire  in  the  bar 
room,  with  his  pipe  in  his  mouth,  and  cogitated.  He 
had  decided  to  marry  Luce,  and,  as  has  been  re 
marked,  if  a  thing  must  be  done,  he  knew  of  no  way* 
but  to  do  it. 

Now  he  was  already  in  Salem,  —  it  might  not  be 
so  easy  to  get  down  again,  —  if  he  could  manage  it 
so  as  to  get  his  certificate  of  publishment  now,  he 
could  stop  and  tell  Luce  of  it  on  his  way  home. 
This  certainly  was  the  best  way  of  doing  the  busi 
ness;  but  here  was  a  difficulty.  His  own  name 
he  knew,  but  what  was  her  own  ?  "  Luce  —  Luce, 


180  OLD   WITCH   MOLL 

that  must  mean  Lucy.  '  Miss  Lucy'  would  be  right, 
then,  so  far.  Then  she  said  Aunt  Moll;  and  it 
would  n't  be  any  wonder  if  she  was  a  niece,  and  had 
the  same  name."  Captain  Tim  was  a  Yankee,  and 
set  to  work  to  find  out. 

"How  old  has  Moll  got  to  be  ?"  said  he  to  the 
bar-tender. 

"Nobody  can  tell  you  that  ere.  I'm  thinking 
my  father  used  to  know  her,  —  she  can't  be  far  from 
a  hundred,  —  sich  folks  lives  forever." 

"Did  your  father  know  her?  What  did  her 
name  use  to  be  ?  " 

"  Buswell,  —  Mary  Buswell,  I  've  heard  him  tell; 
and  a  pretty  gal  and  a  smart  gal  she  was,  too." 

"  They  call  her  Old  Moil  now,  don't  they  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"  Does  she  live  alone  there  ?  " 

"Not  she;  she  has  a  pretty  gal  living  with  her, 
—  some  relation,  folks  say.  She  keeps  her  shut  up, 
and  learns  her  to  deal  with  Old  Niek,  —  and  she 
knows  now  more  than  honest  folks  wish  she  did." 

Captain  Tim,  having  made  up  his  mind,  was  not 
at  all  discouraged  by  this  recommendation.  He 
finished  his  pipe.  Salem  people  were  now  astir,  — 
shops  and  offices  were  open.  He  went  out  into 
Main-street,  and  entered  a  large  tobacco  store.  He 
bought  a  bladder  of  snuff,  and  some  very  extra  to 
bacco,  for  a  present  to  Moll.  He  then  went  to  the 


AND    HER   BROWN    PITCHER.  181 

town  clerk's  office,  and  entered  his  name  for  publish 
ment  of  "intention  of  marriage"  with  Miss  Lucy 
Buswell.  He  then  persuaded  the  clerk  to  give  him 
the  certificate  of  publishment,  which,  to  save  the 
forms  of  law,  was  dated  two  weeks  or  more  in  ad 
vance, —  the  clerk  consenting  to  a  liberal,  and,  it 
must  be  confessed,  an  original  interpretation  to  the 
law,  out  of  regard  for  Captain  Tim's  ingenuity  and 
honest  face. 

The  sun  by  this  time  was  getting  pretty  well  up, 
and  Captain  Tim's  horses  were  rested ;  so,  with  his 
license  safe  in  his  pocket,  he  turned  his  face  home 
ward.  "  It  can't  do  no  harm,"  said  he  to  himself;. 
"  if  it  don't  do  no  good.  I  can  burn  it  up,  if  I 
change  my  mind;  it  han't  cost  me  much." 

The  sun  made  a  glorious  morning  of  it,  bathing 
wagon  and  driver,  dog  and  horses,  in  a  cheerful 
light,  drying  up  the  roads,  and  bringing  out  many 
singers  on  the  still  leafless  branches  by  the  way-side. 
Since  the  same  hour  on  the  day  before,  how  much 
had  happened  to  the  commander-in-chief  of  the  mili 
tary  forces  of  II !  Event  had  succeeded  event, 

thought  followed  thought,  and  plan  trod  hard  upon 
plan.  His  heart  beat  with  unwonted  excitement,  — 
faster  and  still  faster,  as  Aunt  Moll's  hovel  came  in 
sight. 

A  cheerful  smoke  now  curled  gracefully  up  from 
the  huge  throat  of  the  old  chimney,  and  the  bleached 
16 


182  OLD    WITCH    MOLL 

pile  of  bones  which  lay  around  it  looked  far  less 
formidable  with  the  sun  shining  on  them.  To  soften 
the  sombre  look  of  the  pile  of  logs,  a  young  girl 
stood  by  them,  dressed  in  short  gown  and  petticoat, 
with  a  blue  handkerchief  bound  over  her  head.  It 
was  Luce, —  Captain  Tim  knew  her  in  an  instant. 
Now,  he  had  been  trying  all  the  morning  to  arrange 
his  thoughts  a  little,  to  make  out  what  he  should 
say  first,  but  he  had  not  been  able  to  satisfy  him 
self.  He  had  never  been  courting  in  his  younger 
days. 

Somehow  it  did  not  seem  to  him  as  if  it  would  be 
exactly  the  right  beginning  to  show  the  license  first, 
and  he  was  all  in  confusion  as  to  what  he  ought  to 
do.  He  looked  down  on  his  dirty  frock  and  boots, 
—  how  much  Captain  Tim  would  have  given,  just 
then,  for  his  gold  epaulets ! 

"  Good-inorning,  Miss  Lucy ;  I  hope  you  're  well 
this  morning." 

Lucy  lifted  up  the  same  laughing  face  which  had 
bewitched  our  hero  at  dead  of  night. 

"  So  you  got  along,  did  you  ?  "  said  she,  snapping 
a  pair  of  black  eyes. 

"  Yes,  and  I  suppose  I  ought  to  thank  you  for  it." 

Now  came  a  dead  pause.  Captain  Tim  fumbled 
in  his  frock  pockets,  —  he  grasped  his  license ;  in 
hia  extremity,  he  was  just  about  handing  it  out  to 
her,  when  his  fingers  encountered  the  tobacco. 


AND    HER   BROWN    PITCHER.  183 

"  0,  I  forgot,"  said  he ;  "I  brought  Aunt  Moll  a 
present ;  it 's  in  the  wagon.  I  '11  get  it  in  a  min 
ute."  Down  he  ran  after  it,  and,  with  snuff  and 
tobacco,  propitiatory  offerings  to  the  goddess  within, 
he  approached  the  hovel.  By  this  time  Lucy  had 
vanished,  but  the  door  stood  wide  open. 

"  Good-morning,"  said  Captain  Tim  to  the  old 
crone,  who  was  smoking  in  the  chimney-corner ;  "  I 
thought,  as  I  was  going  by,  I  'd  just  drop  in  and 
leave  you  a  little  present,  for  helping  me  along  last 
night." 

"  You  lie !  "  said  Moll ;  "  it 's  Luce  ye  're  arter, 
and  you  know  it  is." 

"  Well,  so  it  is,  granny.  You  do  know  everything, 
don't  ye  ?  I  've  got  the  license  safe  in  my  pocket. 
I  want  to  marry  her,  and  take  her  home  with  me. 
I  've  got  a  nice  farm,  I  'in  well  to  do  in  the  world, 
and  I  s'pose  I  Ve  sowed  my  wild  oats.  I  can  give 
her  a  good  home,  and  take  good  care  on  her.  Try 
your  snuff  and  'baccy,  will  ye  ?  " 

Moll  re-filled  her  pipe,  and,  looking  straight  into 
the  ashes,  rocked  to  and  fro  a  long  time  in  silence. 
Captain  Tim  grew  very  impatient. 

"I  know  all  about  ye,"  said  she,  at  last;  "you 
may  as  well  have  her  as  anybody,  far 's  I  know. 
She  will  marry  some  day,  —  more  fool  she,  —  she 's 
got  it  in  her.  Luce,  —  Luce !  " 

Lucy  came   at   the   call.    "Captain  Tim,  here, 


184 


wante  you  to  Barry  bin.  Yaa  may  do  as  joa  *re  a 
•nad  to  abort  h.  Wbatsay,eh?  Speak  out — 
doat  act  Eke  aBMfkta!0 

Lacy,  wilk  her  syail  Bag  <yes,  looked  ia  Ciaphaw 

-  _•  ''.-..-"-_:•:  :.-.•:.  ?__;  n:-:  :__;,  1.1: 

heart  aw*  heart. 

"What  do  ye  say  V  roared  Moll  ;  «  hedont  want 
to  keep  as  teui  waiting  aH  day." 

-Yes,  I  will  marry  Km,"  said  Locj. 

"  WeB,  themv  be  off  vitk  ye  now,  Mr.  Captain. 
Dart  waste  faae  a  cnortiag  Yoa  H  bare  enoogh 
•f  awgarier  yoaVe  •uiiied.  Off  whb  ye,  and  be 
back  bere  two  veeks  &n  ta^day.  Ye  aTnt  sueb  a 
fiiol  as  to  sopfMoe  your  ficexfie  wiH  do  ye  any  good 
yet.  See  to  it,  now,  je  dont  make  any  talk  about 
it,  or  it  will  go  bard  with  ye.  The  gal  will  bare 
noddag  but  the  elotbes  oo  her  boek ;  I  teDyetbat 
beftteaaad.  Ifiai  je,  too,  ye  Tre  to  bring  no  paam 


"  We  can  go  down  town  to  get  muried,"  said  the 

"  Sah  yoorsrff  •boat  that;  it 's  aD  one  to  me," 
••1  Mull,  "aiaee  ahe  wffl  go.  Ye 're  a  pair  of 
fob,  both  of  ye!" 

<*  I  *re  had  her  name  pat  down  OB  thk  paper  as 
Mki  Lucy  BosweQ.  Is  that  right,  granny  ?  n 

"  Good  as  any  name,"  and  Mofl,  with  a 
jjpiwf  tfcnrlfc. 


150 

"AnregTar,  then?" 

"BegTar,"  said  MoH,  with  a  huge  pu£ 

"  1 11  he  here,  then,  two  weeks  from  to-day,"  amp 
CaptamTim. 

<- See  that  you  dont  come  afcre  then,  that 's  afl ; 
so  off  with  you,  now ! " 

Captain  Tim  could  think  of  nothing  farther  to 
remark.  He  mored  towards  the  door.  Lucy  fcl- 
knred  him.  He  looked  once  more  in  her  eyes ;  they 
were  swimming  in  tears.  He  stopped  on  the  outer 
step ;  he  wanted  to  say  smnrthing.  "  Don't  cry," 
said  he,  in  a.  whisper  ;  •*  I H  be  good  to  ye."  Her 
head  drooped  a  little,  and  Captain  Tim  somehow — 
he  nercr  could  tefl  exactly  how  himself  —  fmnd  hk 
Gps  on  her  cheek.  Twenty-fire  years  had  it  been 
smce  his  lip  had  touched  so  soft  a  cheek; —  them  he 
land  his  last  friewefl  to  his  mother. 

" Lnee !"  growled  out  old  Mofl.  Captain  Tmi 
started  as  if  shot ;  he  onto  his  team,  he  whistled 
to  Bowsen,  he  put  on  the  lash,  and  was  sot 
he  own  familiar  bilk. 

For  the  next  fixtmght  Peg  was  in  a  great' 
dary.  What  had  bewitched  her  master  neither  she 
nor  any  one  else  could  dmne.  She  was  sure  she 
had  cleaned  the  house  once  that  spring  from  garret 
to  cellar,  and  yet  nothing  would  do  but  Dodge  most 
come  and  clean  after  her.  Then  came  painters  and 
white-washers,  and,  last  of  all,  die  was  quite  dnmb- 
16* 


186  OLD   WITC1I    MOLL 

founded  by  the  sight  of  a  bran  new  paper  for  the 
parlor  walls,  —  a  paper  full  of  pretty  pictures  of 
men  and  women  sitting  under  trees  with  angels 
flying  over  their  heads.  Thinking  it  proved  that 
her  master  had  either  "  gone  stark  staring  mad," 
or  had  some  secret  plan  in  view,  which  he  would 
reveal  to  no  one,  she  besieged  him  again  with  ques 
tions. 

"  I  bought  it  because  1  wanted  to,"  was  all  she 
could  get  out  of  him.  She  fretted  and  fumed,  and 
sulked  and  cried,  at  having  the  house  turned  upside 
down,  but  all  to  no  purpose.  Captain  Tim  went 
straight  on,  having  everything  done  in  his  own  way 
and  own  time.  At  last  he  seemed  satisfied.  He 
walked  from  one  room  to  another,  looked  into  his 
cupboards,  smiled  and  whistled. 

"  Peg,"  said  he,  "  I  want  you  to  brush  up  my 
uniform." 

"  The  Lard  a'  massa,  captain !  to-morrow  a'nt 
trainin'-day." 

"  No  matter  ;  I  want  it  ready  to-night ;  and,  hark 
ye,  Peg,  here  's  your  wages,  and  a  dollar  over,  to 
buy  you  a  new  gown.  To-morrow  I  'm  going  away, 
and  to-morrow  night,  at  six  o'clock,  I  shall  be  back 
here,  with  company.  I  want  ye  to  ccok  your  best 
tea,  and  set  the  table  in  the  parlor,  and  put  on  the 
best  cups." 

Spite  of  himself,  Captain  Tim  looked  rather  fool- 


AND  HER    BROWN    PITCHER.  187 

ish,  and  Peg  instantly  mistrusted  the  truth.  She 
did  not  dare,  however,  to  say  a  word.  She  fixed 
up  the  uniform,  and  went  to  bed.  When  she  awoke, 
her  master  had  gone,  and  she  had  lost  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  him  start  off  in  a  handsome  covered-wagon. 

On  the  morning  of  the  appointed  day,  Lucy, 
dressed  in  her  "  span-clean  "  clothes,  sat  on  the  log 
by  Moll's  door.  All  which  she  owned  in  the  world 
was  tied  up  in  a  red  cotton  handkerchief,  and  the 
bundle  was  by  her  side.  She  was  putting  a  root  or 
two  of  a  favorite  herb  into  it,  when  she  heard  steps, 
and,  looking  up,  saw  her  gallant  captain  standing 
before  her,  —  blue  coat  and  yellow  buttons,  gold 
epaulets  and  white  pants,  shining  boots  and  waving 
plume.  A  very  fine-looking  captain  he  was,  in 
truth.  Lucy's  eyes  danced  with  pleasure,  and  she 
gave  him  such  a  welcome  as  soon  brought  his  lips  to 
her  cheeks  again. 

"  You  're  all  ready  ?  "  said  Captain  Tim. 

"  All  ready,"  said  Lucy,  "  but  digging  up  a  root 
or  two." 

"  Let  me  do  it,"  said  Captain  Tim.  She  laughed, 
and  handed  him  her  spade. 

"  I  would  n't  put  these  ere  in  your  bundle,"  said 
he  ;  "  I  '11  put  them  in  the  wagon-box.  How  is  Aunt 
Moll  ? " 

"  She  is  well,  —  there  she  is." 

"  So  ye  're  here,  bright  and  early,  in  your  rigi- 


188  OLD   WITCH   MOLL 

mentals,  are  ye,  Mr.  Captain  ?  You  '11  have  all  the 
boys  in  town  arter  ye,  to  pay  for  it,  if  ye  don't  look 
out.  You  've  broke  your  fast,  I  s'pose  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  captain,  "  and  I  am  all  ready 
now,  as  soon  as  Lucy  is." 

"  Luce  has  been  ready  this  week,"  said  Moll,  in  a 
gruff  tone.  "  You  've  got  a  hard  day's  work  afore 
ye,  and  the  sooner  you  're  off  the  better.  I  don't 
want  any  leave-takings.  Off  with  ye,  both !  I  wish 
ye  well.  Here,  this  is  all  I  have  to  give  ye.  Now, 
mark  my  words.  Luck  be  to  ye  while  this  abides 
under  your  roof,  and  woe  be  to  ye  should  ill  befall 
it !  "  She  handed  them  a  brown  crockery  pitcher,  of 
a  most  unearthly  look.  It  was  shaped  like  a  barrel, 
with  a  human  head,  and  a  distorted,  fiend-like  face. 
A  gaping  mouth  it  had,  the  under  lip  protruding, 
and  huge  ears,  which  were  fastened  back  to  make  a 
handle,  and  a  skull,  which  lifted  up,  for  a  cover. 
Captain  Tim,  nothing  daunted,  since  he  was  in  regi 
mentals,  lifted  the  skull,  and  found  in  the  bowels 
of  the  pitcher  a  few  odd,  well-crossed  pieces  of 
silver. 

"  Spend  the  siller  and  ye  will,  Luce,  on  wedding 
finery ;  but  keep  the  pitcher,  I  tell  ye,  for  your 
children  and  your  children's  children." 

These  were  Aunt  Moll's  farewell  words.  She 
went  back  into  her  hovel,  and  shut  her  door  and 
hasped  it.  She  would  be  disturbed  no  more. 


AND   HER   BROWN    PITCHER.  189 

Captain  Tim  packed  the  pitcher  carefully  away 
in  the  straw  in  the  box,  stowed  in  the  roots  and 
the  bundle  also,  handed  in  the  bride  elect,  and 
trotted  off  towards  Salem.  He  and  Lucy  now  made 
good  use  of  their  tongues,  as  you  may  imagine,  and 
in  an  hour  or  two  they  knew  each  other's  history. 
Lucy  could  not  tell  him  exactly  what  relation  she 
was  to  Moll ;  she  did  not  know  ;  she  had  always 
called  her  aunt,  and  she  reckoned  she  was  a  niece, 
—  at  any  rate,  she  had  not  always  lived  with  her. 
She  did  not  know  very  much  about  her  ;  she  had  a 
dim  remembrance  of  having  heard,  when  a  very 
little  girl,  that  Moll  was  married  unhappily ;  that 
her  husband  deserted  her ;  that  she  was  left  with 
one  child,  who  died  quite  young ;  that  then  Moll 
went  to  that  hut  to  live,  and  buried  the  child  there ; 
and  she,  Lucy,  had  always  thought  it  was  buried 
under  that  heap  of  bones.  Moll  took  great  pains 
that  the  heap  should  never  grow  less. 

"  She  knows  a  deal,"  said  Lucy  ;  "  I  used  to  be 
afraid  of  her.  I  made  up  my  mind,  a  year  or  two 
ago,  I  would  not  live  there  always,  and  I  told  her 
so.  Since  then  she  has  been  careful  what  she  did 
afore  me." 

"  How  came  she  to  let  you  come  off  so  easy  with 
me  ?  "  asked  Captain  Tim. 

"  I  can't  tell,"  said  Lucy.  "  That  night  you  got 
stuck,  I  knew  something  was  going  on.  Aunt  Moll 


190  OLD    WITCH   MOLL 

had  n't  shut  her  eyes.  She  was  so  fidgety  it  kept 
me  awake.  I  heard  you  whip  your  horses,  and  try 
to  start  your  team." 

14  Did  n't  though,  did  ye  ?  "  said  the  captain. 

44  Yes,  and  I  heard  you  whistle  to  Bowsen  and 
come  walking  up  the  lane,  and  I  heard  you  stumble 
over  the  bones.  Aunt  Moll  laughed  then.  I  was 
mad  at  her,  and  I  determined  to  help  you,  if  I 
could." 

44 1  remember  jest  how  ye  looked  when  ye  opened 
the  door,"  said  Captain  Tim,  44  and  I  guess  I  always 
shall.  I  liked  ye  then." 

44  And  so  did  I  you,"  said  Lucy ;  4(  and  I  would 
have  gone  with  ye  that  night,  if  ye  had  asked  me." 

14  You  would  n't  though,  would  ye  ?  "  said  Captain 
Tim,  and  he  laughed  heartily. 

Now  they  were  in  Salem.  Their  license  served 
them,  and  they  were  married.  A  few  bridal  knick- 
knacks  were  bought,  and  the  happy  pair  turned  their 
faces  homeward.  As  they  repassed  old  Moll's  hovel, 
they  peered  out  up  the  lane,  and  drove  slowly  by. 
No  signs  of  life  appeared. 

44  Shall  we  stop  ? "  said  Captain  Tim. 

44  'T  would  be  of  no  use,"  was  the  reply  ;  44  the 
door  is  fast,  and  she  would  n't  let  us  in,  I  know." 
So  they  drove  on.  Soon  Captain  Tim's  farm-house 
came  in  view.  It  faced  the  west,  and  the  front 
windows  shone  like  gold  in  the  light  of  the  setting 


AND    HER   BROWN    PITCHER.  191 

sun.  The  yards  were  swept  clean  as  a  penny,  and 
at  the  door  stood  Peg,  in  her  Sunday's  best. 

What  a  home  this  was  for  the  poor,  homeless 
girl !  The  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks,  —  they 
fell  like  rain  ;  she  dropped  her  head  on  her  hus 
band's  epaulet,  and  cried  like  a  child  for  joy. 

Captain  Tim  laughed  and  cried  too,  as  he  handed 
her  out.  "  Here,  Peggy,"  said  he,  "  is  young  Mrs. 
Tim  Brown." 

This  is  my  great  Aunt  Tim's  history,  as  I  heard 
it  when  a  boy,  many  and  many  a  year  after  it  hap 
pened.  In  addition  to  it,  I  must  say  that  Aunt 
Tim  made  my  uncle  a  most  excellent  wife.  She  was 
handsome  and  good,  loved  and  respected,  outlived 
him  by  about  three  years,  and  died  at  the  ripe  old 
age  of  eighty-five.  Her  children,  and  her  chil 
dren's  children,  cherish  her  memory. 

Those  bright  pictures  on  that  new  paper  have 
long  since  faded  out ;  the  farm-house  itself  has 
gone  to  decay ;  but  that  UNEARTHLY  PITCHER  is  in 
the  family  yet.  In  the  old  house,  it  stood  in  the 
parlor,  in  a  corner  cupboard.  We  children  used  to 
creep  into  the  half-darkened  room,  and  gaze  at  it 
with  awe  and  terror.  I  can  distinctly  remember 
seeing  it  brought  into  the  dairy  or  brewery,  or  set 
over  sick  cattle,  to  bring  good  luck ;  and  I  have 
been  told  it  never  failed. 

So  much  for  Old  Witch  Moll's  pitcher.  Old  Moll 


192  OLD    WITCH    MOLL. 

herself  never  came  to  see  my  uncle  and  aunt,  but 
they  used  to  go  and  see  her  once  a  year.  She  died 
as  she  had  lived,  alone  in  her  hovel,  and,  by  her 
own  particular  request,  my  Uncle  Tim  had  her 
buried  near  that  heap  of  bones.  The  bones  bleached 
and  mouldered  away,  undisturbed;  for  the  very 
dogs  seemed  to  avoid  the  mysterious  spot. 


THE   GLORIOUS  FOURTH  IN  BOSTON. 

"  I  HOPE  we  shall  finish  here,  this  week,"  said 
Mr.  Morton,  to  his  workman,  Ben  Jones. 

"  Finish  easy  enough,  if  't  were  n't  for  the 
Fourth,"  replied  Ben  ;  "  I  always  calculate  to  take 
the  Fourth." 

"  What  do  you  intend  doing  this  year  ?  I  under 
stand  they  are  to  have  no  celebration  in  town." 

"  No,  they  a'nt  to  have  no  celebration,  and  the 
more  fools  they ;  it 's  like  pulling  out  their  eye- 
teeth,  to  have  to  spend  a  dollar  !  It  don't  worry  me 
none,  though,  for  wife  and  I  have  agreed  to  go  to 
Boston,  and  see  the  fireworks." 

"  What  will  you  do  with  your  family  ?  " 

'•  0,  take  'em  along ;  there  a'nt  but  two  of  'em, 
you  know,  and  the  boy  is  pretty  considerable  big 
now,  and  runs  about  quite  smart.  I  only  hope  it 
won't  be  as  hot  as  blazes.  Did  you  ever  see  them 
fireworks,  Mr.  Morton  ?  " 

"  Yes,  many  times." 

"  I  want  to  know  !  Well,  are  they  as  curious  as 
folks  tell  for  ?  " 

"  Yes,  they  are  well  worth  seeing." 

"  That 's  the  idee  I  had  about  it ;  and  wife  and  I 
17 


194  THE   GLORIOUS   FOURTH   IN    BOSTON. 

thought  we  would  go,  for  once  in  our  lives,  and  see 
'em.  I  suppose  it  will  cost  us  a  power  of  money ; 
but  we  can  work  a  little  harder  for  it,  when  we 
come  back." 

The  "  Glorious  Fourth  "  dawned  beautifully.  The 
red  sun  came  up  over  the  distant  hills  like  a  bride 
groom  from  his  chamber,  and  started  on  his  journey 
through  a  cloudless  sky.  Daisy  and  buttercup, 
drunk  with  the  dews  of  the  night,  lifted  their  heavy 
heads  to  greet  him ;  and  a  flood  of  song  was  poured 
from  the  leafy  coverts  of  the  trees,  to  welcome  him. 
Young  eyes  were  opening,  and  young  hearts,  as  well 
as  old  ones,  were  rejoicing  in  this  auspicious  dawn. 

"  We  shall  have  a  beautiful  day  on 't,"  said  Ben 
Jones. 

"  So  we  shall,"  said  his  wife ;  "  and  the  sooner  we 
are  off  the  better,  I  suppose." 

"  Yes,"  said  Ben,  "  the  cars,  they  tell  me,  never 
wait  for  nobody,  and  we  must  be  pretty  early  to  get 
a  seat." 

Ben  immediately  dressed  himself  in  his  Sunday's 
best.  This  suit  was  of  thick  blue  cloth,  the  coat 
being  rather  short-waisted,  and  trimmed  with  yellow 
buttons.  In  this  Ben's  wife  took  a  particular  pride, 
on  account  of  both  its  color  and  its  quality ;  and  she 
had  a  secret  idea 'that  her  husband  looked  like  a 
real  gentleman  in  it.  What  was  her  astonishment, 
when  she  saw  him,  on  this  day  of  all  days,  toss  the 


THE    GLORIOUS   FOURTH   IN   BOSTON.  195 

Sunday  coat  over  a  chair,  take  down  a  nankeen 
jacket,  and  put  it  on  ! 

"  What  in  the  world  are  you  doing  that  for  ?  " 
she  inquired. 

"  'Cause  I  don't  want  to  roast,"  said  Ben ;  "  ic 
will  be  as  hot  as  'Lection,  afore  night.'-' 

"  I  won't  go  with  you  in  that  jacket,"  said  Mrs. 
Ben.  "  How  you  would  look,  in  Boston !  Folks 
would  think  you  were  a  sailor." 

"  'T  won't  hurt  me  none,  what  folks  think,  as  I 
knows  on,"  said  Ben. 

"  Well,  it  will  me,"  remarked  his  wife. 

"Dear  me,  then,  if  you  are  going  to  feel  bad 
about  it,  I  won't  wear  it." 

Ben  was  famously  good-natured ;  he  put  on  the 
thick  blue  coat.  The  children  were  next  taken  up, 
and  dressed  by  the  mother  ;  Tim,  the  boy,  harnessed 
the  horse  into  the  wagon,  while  Ben  prepared  the 
breakfast.  It  was  served  on  the  round  table,  in  the 
little  back-kitchen.  A  good  breakfast  it  was,  con 
sisting  of  coffee  and  cream,  eggs  and  butter,  cold 
pork  and  potatoes,  doughnuts  and  apple-pie ;  and 
that  was  a  happy  party  which  sat  down  to  partake 
of  it.  The  rising  sun  looked  upon  none  happier, 
through  all  that  glad,  bright  morning. 

Our  friends  ate  their  meal  rather  hurriedly,  for 
they  thought  all  the  time  they  heard  the  cars  whiz- 


196  THE   GLORIOUS   FOURTH   IN   BOSTON. 

zing  by,. and  they  concluded  it  was  best  to  be  "  get 
ting  along." 

Tim  was  packing  in  the  babies,  and  Ben  Jones 
turning  the  lock  in  the  door,  when  suddenly  a  new 
thought  struck  hiua. 

"  Now,  I  '11  be  beat,"  said  he,  "  if  I  ha'nt  a  good 
notion  to  take  grandsir's  old  turnip  along." 

"  What  good  will  it  do  you  ? "  asked  his  wife ; 
"  you  can't  make  it  go." 

"  Yes,  I  guess  I  can,"  said  Ben ;  "  I  can  coax  it 
so  it  'II  hitch  along  a  little,  by  shakin'  it  up  once  in 
a  while." 

Ben  went  in  for  the  old  silver  watch,  wound  it 
up,  set  it  by  guess,  and  deposited  it  in  his  fob.  As 
he  came  out,  his  wife  thought  the  rusty  ribbon,  with 
the  steel  key  attached,  quite  an  addition  to  his 
Sunday  suit.  Her  eyes  were  so  full  of  him  and  his 
good  looks,  that  they  had  gone  above  half  a  mile 
from  home  before  she  observed  that  Ben,  when  he 
took  the  watch,  left  the  bag. 

"  As  true  as  I  am  alive,  Ben,"  said  she,  "  you  've 
left  the  bag ;  and  there  is  no  manner  of  use  in  trying 
to  go  without  it.  All  the  children's  things  are  in 
it" 

"  So  I  have,"  said  Ben ;  "  that 's  a  good  'un. 
Whoa  !  Tim,  run  back,  —  no,  we  shall  get  late,  — 
you  drive  on,  and  I  '11  run  back,  and  catch  up  to 
you." 


THE   GLORIOUS   FOURTH    IN    BOSTON.  197 

Ben  was  wise  enough  to  take  off  his  blue  coat 
before  he  started  on  this  race.  Tim  drove  leisurely 
on.  Old  Dob,  whose  check-rein  was  down,  snatched, 
now  and  then,  a  mouthful  of  clover  and  daisies  from 
the  road-side,  much  to  the  children's  delight.  It 
was  a  great  exploit  for  them  to  start  Dob  along, 
after  these  liberties.  The  little  girl  brandished  the 
huge  whip,  and  Ben  junior  rattled  the  reins,  which 
his  tiny  hands  could  not  wholly  grasp.  Tim  and 
Mrs.  Jones  laughed  heartily  at  these  performances ; 
the  butterflies,  also,  seemed  to  enjoy  it,  for  they  flew 
around  and  around  on  their  yellow  wings,  never 
going  far  away ;  and  the  birds,  too,  followed  them 
from  tree  to  tree,  singing  loud  and  merrily.  A 
most  remarkable  feat  of  the  little  Ben  brought  out 
a  great  chorus  of  laughter,  in  the  midst  of  which 
Ben  senior  caught  up.  He  puffed  like  a  race-horse, 
and  the  "  beady  sweat "  stood  on  his  forehead ;  but 
he  had  found  the  bag,  and  had  overtaken  the  party, 
and  he  felt  quite  content.  Seeing  that  all  were 
laughing,  he  laughed  too,  without  knowing  what 
the  joke  was  ;  so  they  had  a  merry  wagon-load  of  it. 
Perhaps  during  the  whole  of  that  eventful  day  this 
party  saw  no  moments  of  purer  enjoyment. 

"  What  time  is  it  ?  "  inquired  Mrs.  Jones. 

"  Arter  seven,"  said  Ben,  pulling  out  the  old 
watch  and  shaking  it.     "  Jingo !  we  shall  be  late. 
Tim,  drive  like  mad,  while  I  cool  off." 
17* 


198  THE   GLORIOUS   FOURTH   IN    BOSTON. 

Old  Dob  did  his  best,  considering  it  was  the 
"  Glorious  Fourth,"  and  when  he  reached  the  depot 
by  the  railroad  time  it  was  precisely  fifteen  minutes 
after  seven.  According  to  grandsir's  chronometer, 
he  had  come  three  miles  in  about  five  minutes ;  he 
was  therefore  entitled  to  both  rest  and  clover. 

Early  as  it  was,  —  for  the  cars  were  never  along 
before  eight,  and  would  on  this  day  probably  be 
much  later,  —  the  depot  was  already  crowded,  and 
there  was  no  room  within  doors  for  Dob's  load  even 
to  stand.  Mrs.  Jones  said  "she  would  sit  right 
down  on  the  bank."  The  children,  however,  did 
not  like  this  arrangement ;  and  it  was  about  as  diffi 
cult  to  keep  them  still  as  it  would  have  been  a 
young  calf,  and  their  little  feet  were  always  straying 
towards  those  dangerous  rails,  of  which  their  mother 
was  as  much  afraid,  she  said,  "  as  of  a  loaded  gun, 
and  more  too,  for  aught  she  knew."  Ben  the  little, 
after  having  been  brought  up  suddenly,  by  a  grasp 
on  his  sack-belt  behind,  began  to  show  a  proper 
resentment  of  this  impeachment  of  his  liberty  on 
the  Fourth.  He  cried  hard  as  he  could,  and  there 
was  no  pacifying  him,  but  by  a  "  compromise,"  by 
which  he  should  be  allowed  to  roll  in  the  sand. 
This,  his  mother  declared,  "could  never  be  done, 
with  his  span-clean  clothes  on."  The  only  way, 
then,  left  to  Keep  the  peace  was,  that  his  father 
should  carry  him  about,  which  he  did,  pacing  back 


THE   GLORIOUS   FOURTH    IN   BOSTON.  199 

and  forth,  back  and  forth,  by  the  track,  for  more 
than  an  hour.  As  the  sun  rode  on  in  his  unclouded 
path,  his  chariot-wheels  seemed  to  be  of  fire.  Ben 
began  to  find  his  blue  coat  decidedly  uncomfortable. 
"  If  it  had  not  been  for  his  wife,  he  really  should 
have  wished  he  had  worn  his  jacket ;  but,  as  it  was, 
there  was  no  help  for  it ;  it  would  be  cooler  riding, 
if  the  cars  ever  did  get  along."  As  he  walked,  he 
tried  to  talk  with  his  neighbors  around  him,  and 
heard  such  glowing  descriptions  of  the  fireworks, 
that  his  enthusiasm  was  re-kindled,  and  the  edge  of 
present  toil  blunted  by  the  hopes  of  future  pleasure. 

In  the  mean  time,  his  wife  sat  on  the  sand-bank,  in 
the  hot  sun.  Her  gloves  were  fast  losing  their 
original  color ;  her  bonnet-strings  were  loosened,  to 
save  them  from  the  same  fate ;  she  spread  her  little 
sun-shade,  but  it  afforded  but  a  meagre  protection 
for  herself  and  her  little  girl.  Of  all  the  party, 
Dob,  who  stood  in  the  shade  of  a  neighboring  house, 
eating  sorel  and  spearmint,  thus  far  had  had  the 
easiest  time  of  it,  notwithstanding  his  extraordinary 
exertion. 

At  length  the  grateful  sound  of  the  far-off  whistle 
was  heard  by  the  waiting  crowd.  There  was  a 
general  rush  to  the  track,  all  eager  to  get  in  first. 
Ben,  in  his  hurry,  took  up  both  children,  and  Jthe 
bag  into  the  bargain,  so  that  his  wife  had  nothing 
to  do  but  to  keep  them  all  from  going  under  the  car- 


200  THE   GLORIOUS   FOURTH   IN    BOSTON. 

wheels.  There  was  pushing  and  scrambling,  and 
ordering  hither  and  thither,  and  much  confusion, 
before  the  new  party  could  find  room  in  the  already 
crowded  cars.  There  was  but  one  seat  for  Ben's 
family  of  four.  This  his  wife  took. 

"  You  hold  the  girl  and  the  bag,"  said  Ben, 
"  and  I  '11  stand  close  by  you,  and  hold  on  to  the  boy 
and  the  tickets." 

Now,  after  a  good  mile  race,  and  an  hour's  prom 
enade  in  the  sun,  to  stand  and  carry  a  child  all  the 
way  to  Boston,  was  something  of  a  draft,  even  on 
Ben's  strength.  He  bore  it,  however,  good-hu- 
moredly,  and  to  those  who  tried  to  pass  him,  in  the 
vain  hope  of  a  seat  further  on,  he  distributed  com 
fort  in  the  following  small  doses  : 

"  Plenty  of  room  on  there,  if  you  ha'nt  got  no 
corns.  Hold  on  to  your  hat,  neighbor,  and  I  guess 
you  '11  make  it  out.  Yes,  ma'am,  room  a  plenty; 
they  can  pile  up  there.  'Ta'nt  but  once  a  year," 
said  he  to  a  grumbler ;  "  give  'em  all  a  chance ;  we 
can  afford  to  be  neighborly."  "  Never  mind,"  said 
he  to  a  feeble  old  man,  "  lean  on  me  a  bit ;  if  you 
can  stand  it  a  little  while,  we  shall  soon  be  down 
there ;  they  go  like  shot  when  they  get  at  it." 

The  cars,  however,  went  by  no  means  as  fast  as 
Ben  had  calculated.  They  stopped  at  all  the  way- 
stations,  where  they  found  great  crowds  awaiting 
them.  At  every  fresh  supply,  Ben  burst  into 


THE   GLORIOUS   FOURTH    IN   BOSTON.  201 

such  an  uncontrollable  fit  of  laughter,  and  unbur 
dened  himself  of  so  many  odd,  out-of-the-way 
ejaculations,  that  he  kept  all  around  him  laughing. 
A  lady  who  occupied  the  seat  by  his  wife  seemed 
very  much  amused. 

"  You  must  be  tired,"  said  she,  pleasantly,  to  him. 
"  Shall  not  I  hold  your  boy  a  while  ?  " 

"  I  am  much  obleeged,"  said  Ben,  "  but  the  little 
fellow  is  kind  o'  shy  of  strangers,  and  I  reckon  he 
would  n't  come.  —  Bub,  go  sit  with  the  lady  ?  "  Bub 
signified  his  displeasure.  "  No  ?  well !  it 's  no  mat 
ter.  I  thought  he  would  n't.  Children  are  so  'fraid 
o'  nothin' !  It 's  no  matter  ;  we  shall  soon  be  there, 
now." 

"  0  no,"  replied  the  lady ;  "  we  are  not  quite  half 
way,  and  at  this  rate  it  will  take  us  more  than  an 
hour  longer." 

"  Golly  !  we  shall  have  a  time  on 't,  shan't  we  ?  " 
said  Ben,  laughing  again  loudly. 

"  Perhaps,"  said  the  lady,  "  the  little  girl  will  sit 
with  me,  and  the  mother  can  take  the  boy."  She 
was  bent  on  doing  Ben  a  kindness.  The  girl  came 
to  her  readily,  and  Ben,  relieved  of  his  burden, 
stretched  out  his  arm  as  far  as  he  could  find  room 
for  it. 

"  Wife,"  said  he,  "  that  boy  is  pretty  solid ;  I 
mean  to  have  him  weighed  when  we  get  home." 

At  the  next  station  several  cars  were  added,  and 


202  THE   GLORIOUS    FOURTH    IN    BOSTON. 

all  were  now  accommodated.  Ben  took  a  seat  at  an 
open  window,  in  front  of  his  wife.  Having  no 
longer  any  discomforts  upon  which  to  crack  his 
jokes,  he  began  to  let  off  his  spirits  a  little  on  his 
boy.  He  pulled  off  the  straw  hat  from  the  little 
curly  head,  played  "  peep  bo  "  behind  it,  and  finally 
held  it  out  the  window,  pretending  to  throw  it.  On 
a  sudden,  a  gust  of  wind  took  it,  and  away  it  went, 
in  sober  earnest. 

"  Jingoes  !  hallo-o  there  !  I  never  did  see  the 
beat  on  't !  It 's  gone,  clean  as  a  whistle  !  " 

"  Stop  it !  "  screamed  his  wife,  putting  her  head 
out  of  the  window  ;  "  stop  it,  can't  you  ?  " 

"  It  is  of  no  use  to  try  now,"  said  the  lady ;  "  we 
are  half  a  mile  from  it." 

"  Who  would  have  thought  on  't  ?  "  said  Ben, 
laughing  with  his  neighbors.  "  Well,  little  fellow 
must  go  bare-headed." 

"  It  was  bran  new,"  said  his  wife ;  "  so  much  for 
fooling !  "  and  she  began  to  cry. 

"  La  !  "  said  Ben,  "  what  is  the  use  of  crying  for 
spilt  milk  ?  There  is  plenty  more  where  that  came 
from.  We  '11  buy  him  another,  as  soon  as  we  get  to 
Boston.  'Ta'nt  much  matter ;  't  was  always  kind  o' 
too  small  for  him.  Here,  Bub,  I  '11  tie  on  my  hand 
kerchief." 

Ben  took  out  a  red  cotton  pocket-handkerchief, 
and  tied  it  over  the  little  white  curls. 


THE   GLORIOUS    FOURTH   IN    BOSTON.  203 

"  See,  wife,"  said  he,  "  he  looks  real  pretty  in 
it ;  it  is  a  sight  better  than  his  hat." 

"  Yes,  it  is  quite  becoming  to  him,"  remarked  the 
lady  ;  "  you  ought  to  have  his  picture  taken  !  " 

This  well-timed  compliment  soothed  the  mother, 
and  her  tears  ceased  to  flow. 

The  locomotive  gets  over  the  ground  rapidly, 
even  on  its  slowest  walk,  so  that  in  due  time,  which 
was  in  reality  good  time,  our  Fourth-of-July  parties 
reached  the  Boston  depot,  and  were  soon  scattered 
and  lost  amid  the  crowds  of  the  city.  Ben  expe 
rienced  some  difficulty  in  getting  past  the  hackmen. 
There  seemed  to  be  something  in  his  good-natured 
countenance  which  attracted  them ;  they  besieged 
him  on  every  side.  "  Take  a  hack  ?  take  a  carriage  ? 
Carry  you  right  there,  sir." 

At  first  Ben  laughed,  and  explained  quite  po 
litely  the  reasons  why  he  preferred  walking. 

"  No,  thank  ye  ;  'ta'nt  but  a  step,  and  we  rather 
walk  ;  we  are  only  going  up  a  piece  to  our  cousin's." 
But  when  he  saw  a  gentleman  before  him  deign  no 
other  reply  than  some  hearty  raps  with  his  umbrella- 
handle  on  the  pates  of  the  officious  hackmen,  he  took 
his  cue  from  it,  and,  cutting  short  his  words,  con 
tented  himself,  for  the  most  part,  with  expressive 
shakes.  One  persevering  applicant  followed  him 
quite  out  upon  the  sidewalk.  "  Walk  this  way,  if 
you  please,  sir  ;  here  is  my  hack." 


204  THE   GLOHIOUS  FOURTH   IN    BOSTON. 

"  I  tell  you  I  a'nt  going  to  ride  !  "  said  Ben. 

"Take  you  right  there, — jump  in,  —  any  bag- 
gage  ?  » 

"  Live  baggage,  that 's  all." 

"  Where  do  you  go,  sir  ?  " 

"  To  my  cousin's,  in  T street." 

"  Yes,  sir ;  know  just  where  it  is,  —  carry  you 
right  there.  It 's  to  the  South  End  a  long  way." 

"  Much  obleeged  to  ye,  then,  for  your  kindness," 
Slid  Ben.  "  We'll  get  in,  if  you  are  so  perticular- 
like  about  it.  You  won't  charge  us  nothin',  of 
course  ?  " 

"  Only  one  dollar." 

"  One  dollar  !  Jimininetti !  I  guess  I  shan't  pay 
that  till  I  find  out  where  dollars  grow,"  said  Ben. 

"  You  did  n't  expect  to  ride  for  nothing,  you  fool, 
did  you  ?  "  said  the  hack  man. 

"  'Twas  your  own  job,"  said  Ben.  "  I  told  you,  in 
the  first  on  't,  I  wan't  going  to  ride,  and  you  stuck 
to  me  like  a  leech." 

The  hackman  muttered  something  to  himself,  as 
he  put  up  his  steps ;  Ben  and  his  family  walked 
away,  without  knowing  exactly  whither  to  direct 
their  uncertain  steps.  As  they  turned  the  corner 
of  the  depot,  they  met  the  lady  who  had  spoken  to 
them  in  the  cars.  Her  veil  was  now  lifted,  and 
Ben  thought  he  never  saw  a  handsomer  lady. 


TUB   GLORIOUS   FOURTH   IN    BOSTON.  205 

"Where  are  you  going?  —  to  get  your  boy  a 
hat  ?  "  said  she,  with  a  sweet  smile. 

"  I  calculate  to,"  said  Ben  ;  "  but  I  thought  we 
would  go  to  cousin's  first,  and  kind  o'  settle  down, 
and  then  come  out.  They  live  in  T street." 

"  T street  ?  "  said  the  lady ;  "  that  is  almost 

out  to  Iloxbury.  Your  best  way  is  to  walk  right  up 
into  Washington-street  to  some  of  the  hat-stores  first, 

and  then  take  an  omnibus  out  to  T street.  It 

will  cost  you  only  ten  cents  to  get  there." 

"  I  swany  !  "  said  Ben,  "  and  that  chap  was  going 
to  get  a  dollar  out  of  me !  Blast  him !  " 

The  lady  smiled,  arid  taking  the  little  handker- 
chiefed  boy  by  the  hand,  —  for  he  was  no  longer 
afraid,  —  she  said,  pleasantly,  "  I  am  going  that  way ; 
I  '11  go  along  with  you." 

Ben's  wife  was  much  pleased,  and  she  grew  quite 
communicative.  Telling  the  lady  the  exact  state 
of  her  wardrobe,  she  asked  advice  as  to  what  kind 
of  a  summer  frock  for  hot  Sundays  she  had  better 
buy. 

The  lady  seemed  interested  in  her  plans,  advised 
her  as  to  what  she  had  better  get,  and  also  where 
she  had  better  go  for  it.  The  distance  to  the  hat-store 
seemed  very  short,  they  were  so  busily  talking. 

The  lady  entered  here  with  them.  The  shopman 
bowed  politely  to  her.  She  requested  him  "  to  show 
some  cheap  hats,  which  would  suit  that  little  head." 
18 


206  THE   GLORIOUS  FOURTH   IN    BOSTON. 

But  no  easy  task  was  it  for  the  shop-man  to  judge 
of  the  size  of  that  head ;  for  the  little  fellow,  now 
completely  won  over,  hid  himself  behind  the  lady. 

"  Why,  Benny,"  said  his  mother,  "  come  here." 
Benny  only  peeped  out,  showing  one  blue  eye  be 
tween  the  red  handkerchief  and  the  lady's  dress. 

"  He  is  smitten  with  the  lady,"  said  Ben ;  "  don't 
bother  him  ! " 

The  lady  took  out  her  watch.  "  I  find  I  must 
go, "  said  she ;  "  I  am  now  behind  my  time.  This 
man,  I  presume,  will  stop  the  Roxbury  omnibus 
for  you.  I  have  some  tickets  with  me ;  here  are 
two,  if  you  will  accept  them." 

"  I  don't  want  to  take  your  tickets  for  nothing," 
said  Ben ;  "  had  n't  you  better  keep  'em  ?  " 

"  I  have  plenty  more,"  said  the  lady. 

"  I  '11  pay  you  what  they  are  worth,  then,"  said 
Ben,  pulling  out  his  old  leather  purse. 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  the  lady,  laughing.  "  Good- 
morning  !  " —  and  she  left  the  store. 

Ben  forgot  all  about  the  hat,  as  he  looked  after 
her.  One  would  have  thought  a  star  had  disap 
peared  from  the  bro-,v  of  evening.  Ben  thought  so. 
"  By  the  powers,"  said  he,  "  she  is  the  realest  lady 
I  ever  see,  and  no  mistake." 

His  wife  wiped  her  eyes.  She  felt  as  if  she  had 
lodt  a  friend,  and  was  now  alone  in  the  great  city. 

"  What  kind  of  a  hat  do  you  wish  ? "  said  the 


THE    GLORIOUS  FOURTH   IN    BOSTON.  207 

man  behind  the  counter.  He  had  no  time  to  spend 
on  sentiment. 

"  Something  cheap,  just  to  cover  the  boy's  head," 
said  the  father.  After  considerable  chaffering,  the 
man  talked  them  into  buying  a  coarse  Leghorn,"  for 
which  he  charged  them  one  dollar. 

Not  much  more  than  half  satisfied,  they  left  his 
store  when  the  next  omnibus  made  its  appearance, 
each  wishing  they  might  meet  the  lady  again ;  for  it 
seemed  as  if  light  had  disappeared  from  their  path 
with  her.  Mrs.  Jones  looked  for  her  on  the  thronged 
sidewalk,  and  so  did  Ben  for  a  while ;  but  soon  he  ral 
lied,  and  began  his  original  remarks  on  the  people 
and  the  city.  More  than  one  individual  in  the  om 
nibus  smiled  at  their  homely  drollery.  One  gen 
tleman  entered  into  conversation  with  him.  Ben 
frankly  told  him  what  he  had  come  for,  and  where 
he  was  going. 

"  If  you  are  going  to  T street,"  said  the  gen 
tleman,  "  you  must  get  out  pretty  soon." 

"  I  reckon  I  must,"  said  Ben  ;  "  but  how  do  you 
stop  these  fellers  ?  I  an't  much  used  to  riding  in  these 
concerns.  I  don't  know  as  I  was  ever  in  one  afore." 

"  I  '11  stop  him  for  you,"  said  the  gentleman.  He 
did  so,  and  Ben  and  his  family  were  safely  deposited 

at  the  head  of  T street.  It  was  no  difficult  matter 

to  find  the  desired  house.  Ben  rang  the  door-bell. 
"  Is  Simon  Jones  to  home  ?  "  he  asked.  The  Irish 


208  THE   GLORIOUS  FOURTH   IN    BOSTON. 

girl  stared  stupidly,  and  said,  "  No  such  man  lived 
there."  "  But  he  does,"  said  Ben,  "  and  I  am  his 
cousin,  and  I  Ve  come  to  see  him."  The  servant 
girl  declared  "  he  did  n't,"  and  talked  so  fast  Ben 
could  n't  understand  a  word  she  said.  He  was  about 
forcing  his  way  in,  in  spite  of  her,  when  another 
woman  came  to  the  door,  and  told  him  "  Simon 
Jones  had  moved  to  A street." 

"  How  far  may  that  be  ?  " 

"  Not  far  from  half  a  mile,  or  three-quarters," 
was  the  reply. 

"  The  Dickens  !  "  said  Ben ;  "  that 's  onlucky.  I 
reckoned  on  finding  'em  here  ;  the  little  folks  is  most 
beat  out,  and  I  don't  know  how  we  shall  get  'em  there." 

The  woman  said  nothing.  She  did  n't  want  to  be 
pestered  with  the  troubles  of  country  folks  on  the 
Fourth  of  July.  She  would  not  unasked  even  do  so 
much  as  to  offer  the  cup  of  cold  water  to  the  weary 
ones.  She  shut  the  door  slowly,  and  returned  to 
her  room. 

"  I  don't  care,  anyhow.  I  '11  sit  down  here  and 
rest,  as  long  as  it  used  to  be  Sim's  house,"  said  Ben. 
"  It 's  kind  of  shady,  and  we  can  cool  off.  I  'd  give 
a  good  deal  for  our  old  bucket,  right  up  from  the 
bottom  of  the  well." 

"  So  would  I,"  said  his  wife ;  "  it  seems  as  if  I 
should  melt." 

"  I  reckon  I  should  have  been  warm  enough  with 


THE   GLORIOUS  FOURTH   IN   BOSTON.  209 

my  jacket  on,"  said  Ben.  "  I  think  it 's  a  chance  if 
I  ever  get  this  ere  coat  off;  it  sticks  tight  as  a  lob 
ster." 

"  Mother,  I  'm  choked !  "  said  the  little  girl,  begin 
ning  to  cry.  Benny  expressed  his  appreciation  of 
the  heat,  by  pulling  off  his  new  Leghorn,  and  tum 
bling  it  down  the  steps.  His  white  curls  seemed  to 
have  been  just  taken  from  a  basin  of  water. 

"  I  think  we  had  better  be  getting  along,"  said 
Mrs.  Ben ;  "  it 's  growing  hotter  all  the  while,  and 
folks  stare  at  us  as  if  we  were  a  party  of  thieves." 

Ben  agreed  to  this,  and  they  started  for  A 

street. 

The  old  watch,  after  a  shake  or  two,  told  the  hour 
of  eleven.  The  sun,  riding  on,  abated  not  a  whit  of 
his  burning  speed,  but  poured  his  fiery  beams  on  the 
red  walls  near  which  our  party  walked,  seeming  to 
burn  the  air  they  breathed,  and  heating  the  bricks 
below  almost  to  the  scorching  of  those  tender  feet 
which  pressed  them.  The  little  ones  cried,  and  could 
walk  no  further.  There  was  no  help  for  it;  Ben  must 
carry  the  boy  and  the  bag,  and  Mrs.  Ben  the  girl. 

"  Jingoes !  "  said  Ben,  as  the  sweat  poured  down 
his  cheeks  in  streams,  "  if  this  don't  beat  anything 
I  ever  seed  !  I'd  rather  by  half  bo  in  '  the  Peak,' 
a  hayin,  and  that  is  the  deucedest  hottest  place  I 
was  ever  in,  till  now  !  " 

Mrs.  Ben  suffered  in  crimson ;  she  was  not  one 
18* 


210  THE   GLOB10US   FOURTH   IN    BOSTON. 

of  the  dissolving  kind.  Fortunately  they  were  both 

sturdy  walkers,  and  they  soon  reached  A street 

with  their  loads,  though  they  reckoned  it  at  much 
nearer  a  good  mile  than  one-half.  Once  in  the 
street,  they  easily  found  the  house,  and  again  rung 
the  door-bell. 

"Does  Mr.  Simon  Jones  live  here?"  inquired 
Ben. 

"  Yes,  he  does ;  but  he  a'nt  to  home." 

"  A'nt  his  wife  to  home,  neither  ?  " 

"  No,  they  have  both  gone  away,  and  won't  be 
back  till  night," 

"  I  never  see  nothing  beat  it,"  said  Ben,  "  how 
misfortunate !  Now,  I  am  his  cousin,  Ben  Jones, 
and  we  have  come  clean  down  to  see  him  and  the 
fireworks.  We  must  come  in  and  rest  us,  and  cool 
off,  or  there  won't  be  nothing  left  of  us  to  carry 
back." 

"  Walk  in,"  said  the  girl,  laughing.  She  opened 
the  door  of  a  cool,  dark,  pleasant  little  parlor. 

"  Won't  you  take  nothing  ?  "  said  she. 

"  The  children  would  be  glad  of  some  water,"  said 
Mrs.  Ben. 

The  good-natured  servant-girl  brought  in  a  pitcher 
of  ice-water. 

"  You  must  be  careful,"  said  she,  "  and  not  drink 
much  when  you  are  hot.  Folks  die  so,  pretty  often, 
'  down  here.' " 


THE    GLORIOUS   FOURTH   IN   BOSTON.  211 

This  was  a  seasonable  caution,  and  the  ice-water, 
fortunately,  was  drunk  with  moderation. 

"I  wish,"  said  the  girl,  "  I  could  get  you  up  a 
dinner;  it's  a  thousand  pities  the  folks  an't  to  home. 
Do  you  think  you  could  eat  a  bit  of  cracker  and 
cheese  ?  It 's  every  sign  of  a  thing  we  've  got  in 
the  house." 

"  Yes,  La  me  !  yes,  indeed,"  -said  Ben;  "  there's 
nothing  better." 

After  this  lunch,  Ben  tipped  back  in  his  chair  and 
dozed  ;  the  weary  children  forgot  their  play,  and 
fell  fast  asleep  on  the  carpet.  The  mother,  seeing 
all  comfortable,  followed  their  example,  and  took  her 
nap. 

All  awoke  refreshed  but  Ben,  who  began  to  feel 
the  want  of  substantial  food,  after  his  day's  exertion. 

<;  I  guess,"  said  he,  "  we  'd  better  be  getting  along, 
and  go  into  some  eating-house  and  have  a  dinner. 
I  feel  as  hollow  as  a  drum." 

This  plan  was  decided  upon.  The  watch,  well 
shaken,  showed  that  time  was  somewhere  in  the 
neighborhood  of  figure  3  ;  and  if  so,  it  was  none  too 
early  to  make  a  move.  The  kind  servant-girl  lent  a 
helping  hand,  showing  every  little  attention  which 
she  could  think  of.  She  ran  up  to  Washington- 
street  bare-headed,  beckoned  the  omnibus,  helped  the 
children  in,  and  told  Ben  "  he  must  come  again  and 
bring  them  all,  when  the  folks  were  at  home." 


212  THE   GLORIOUS  FOURTH   IN    BOSTON. 

Ben  said,  "  '  T  was  their  turn  to  come  to  his  house, 
and  she  must  come  too ;"  and,  mutually  pleased,  they 
parted. 

"  Where  shall  we  get  out  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Jones. 

"  The  land  !  I  don't  know ;  I  ant  particular  ; 
you  can  let  us  out  anywhere  along  down  there," 
said  Ben  to  the  ticket-man. 

The  man  smiled,  balanced  himself  on  one  foot, 
and  asked,  "  Where  you  going  to  ?  " 

"  To  get  some  dinner,  if  I  can  find  any,"  said  Ben. 
"  Maybe  you  know  of  some  eating-houses,  along  on 
the  road  ?  " 

"  Maybe  I  do,"  said  the  man,  nodding. 

"  Put  us  out  to  any  of  'em,"  said  Ben. 

"  Only  as  near  the  Common  as  we  can  get,"  said 
Mrs.  Ben ;  "  the  children  cannot  walk  much  further." 

The  man  stopped  at  a  large  confectioner's.  Straw 
berries,  ice-cream,  cakes,  candies,  sugars  of  all  de 
scriptions,  lined  the  windows.  They  entered,  and  in 
amazement  walked  through  into  the  saloon.  Here  a 
fountain,  playing  musically  into  a  marble  basin,  which 
was  filled  with  gold-fishes,  instantly  attracted  their 
attention.  The  children  fairly  screamed  with  de 
light,  and  Ben  was  scarcely  less  noisy. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  emphatically,  "  if  that  don't  beat 
all  creation  !  I  never  did  see  the  like  on 't,  in  my 
life.  What  pretty  creturs !  and  here  is  this  water 
a  bustin  right  up  through  the  floor !  " 


THE   GLORIOUS   FOUKTH   IN   BOSTON.  213 

"  There  must  be  a  well  in  the  cellar,"  remarked 
his  wife,  quietly. 

"  Yes,  I  s'pose  so,"  responded  Ben. 

"  What  will  you  have  ?  "  asked  a  pretty  girl,  with 
long  curls. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,  —  what  you  got  ?" 

"  Vanilla,  lemon,  strawberry,  pine-apple,  —  any 
thing  you  choose." 

"  I  don't  know  nothin'  about  them  stuffs.  Han't 
you  got  no  pork  and  beans  ?  I  want  some  dinner. 
I  am  e'en-a-most  starved." 

"  We  don't  keep  them,"  said  the  girl. 

"  0,  you  don't  ?  "  Ben  did  not  know  exactly 
what  to  call  for  next.  He  observed,  now,  that  the 
saloon  was  filled  with  elegantly  dressed  people,  and 
he  was  rather  glad,  to  tell  the  truth,  that  he  had  his 
Sunday  coat  on. 

The  girl  with  the  long  curls  awaited  his  order. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Ben,  feeling  that  he  must  say 
something. 

"  Ah,  here  is  the  little  boy  again,"  said  a  sweet 
voice  behind  him.  He  recognized  it  instantly,  and 
turned.  There  was  the  lady. 

"  How  do  you  do  ?  "  said  Ben,  coming  up,  and 
offering  her  his  great  red  hand.  It  would  have  held 
a  half-dozen  more  like  the  little  white-gloved  one 
which  was  now  put  within  it.  "  How  do  you  do  ?  " 
Ben  laughed  —  so  did  his  wife  —  so  did  his  chil- 


214  TUB   GLORIOUS   FOURTH    IN   BOSTON. 

dren  ;  all  were  pleased.  Their  hearts  had  been 
fairly  won  by  the  tones  of  kind  sympathy. 

"  I  did  not  think  of  meeting  you  here,"  said  the 
lady. 

"  Nor  I  neither,"  said  Ben.  "  I  come  in  here 
to  see  if  we  could  n't  get  some  dinner.  We  han't 
had  none  to-day.  We  found  our  folks  gone." 

"Ah,  I  am  sorry.  You  have  a  dining-saloon, 
have  you  not  ?  "  inquired  the  lady,  of  long-curls. 

Long-curls  said,  "  Yes,  in  the  back  shop,"  and 
retired. 

The  lady  led  the  way  into  another  apartment. 
Here  were  many  tables,  each  neatly  laid  for  two. 
The  lady  gave  Ben  and  his  wife  a  seat,  and  then 
placed  a  third  chair  for  the  little'' girl.  A  white- 
aproned  waiter  stood  by. 

"  Here  's  a  bill  of  fare,"  said  the  lady  to  Ben  ; 
"  read  it  over,  and  see  what  you  would  like." 

Ben  read  it  slowly  aloud,  pronouncing  it  after 
his  own  fashion.  When  he  came  to  a  French 
dish,  he  gave  it  such  an  outlandish  name,  the 
waiter  roared.  Ben  looked  up,  and  joined  him 
heartily. 

"  That 's  some  fandango  I  don't  know  nothin' 
about,"  said  Ben ;  "  give  me  some  pork  and  taters." 
His  wife  chose  chicken.  The  lady  advised  them  to 
keep  the  bill  of  fare  by  them,  and  they  would  know 
then  all  the  prices  of  the  different  dishes  beforehand. 


THE   GLORIOUS   FOURTH   IN   BOSTON.  215 

After  seeing  them  comfortably  provided  for,  she  left 
them. 

Ben  wanted  some  water.  He  saw  nothing  to 
pour  it  in,  for  the  two  goblets  were  filled  with  the 
napkins,  which  blossomed  out  like  white  peonies. 

"  Halloo,  Mister,"  said  he,  "  would  n't  you  please 
to  give  us  some  mugs  to  take  a  drink  in  ?  " 

The  waiter  laughingly  removed  the  blossoming 
napkins,  and  filled  the  goblets. 

"  It 's  most  too  bad  to  spile  them  pretty  things," 
said  Ben.  Ben  and  his  wife  forgot  the  lady's  ad 
vice,  to  keep  the  bill  of  fare  by  them,  and  look  at 
the  prices  beforehand.  Eating  seemed  to  whet  their 
appetites.  One  thing  after  another  they  "  reckoned 
would  taste  good."  They  could  n't  get  them  every 
day.  Pigeon-pie,  lobster,  pastry,  a  cup  of  tea  for 
the  wife,  and,  last  of  all,  they  thought  it  would  be  a 
good  plan  to  have  a  pitcher  of  milk  for  the  children. 
The  waiter  was  very  attentive.  No  order  was  neg 
lected.  At  length  the  important  dinner  was  fin 
ished  ;  even  the  children  were  satisfied.  Ben  drew 
out  his  old  purse,  and  called  for  his  bill. 

"  Two  dollars,  sir." 

"  Two  dollars  !  "  said  Ben. 

"  Two  dollars !  "  echoed  his  wife. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Why,  that 's  enough  to  keep  us  <jll  to  home  a 
week,"  said  Ben,  "  with  Tim  and  Dob  into  the 
bargain." 


216  THE   GLORIOUS   FOURTH    IN    BOSTON. 

"  The  prices  are  all  marked,"  said  the  waiter, 
laughing  in  spite  of  himself. 

"  Fact,  so  they  be,"  said  Ben,  taking  up  the  bill 
of  fare.  "  The  lady  told  us  so,  and  I  forgot  every 
breath  about  it.  Let 's  see  how  you  reckon." 

Greatly  to  the  amusement  of  many  present,  he 
enumerated  the  various  items,  with  a  running  com 
ment  on  the  attendant  price. 

"  '  A  cup  of  tea,  six  and  a  quarter  cents.'  Golly ! 
I  should  think  you  'd  get  rich  on  that.  '  A  cup  of 
milk,  six-and-a-quarter  cents; '  —  one  cup  of  milk  ! 
Jimminetti !  What  did  you  ask  for  that  ar  little 
piteher-full  ? " 

"  There  were  four  cups,  sir ;  it  will  be  a  quarter 
of  a  dollar." 

Ben  and  his  wife  sat  for  a  minute  silent,  the  per 
fect  picture  of  astonishment.  Ben  recovered  his 
speech  slowly. 

"  That  —  are  —  leetle  pitcher-full  —  if  I  a'nt 
beat !  Why,  if  you  '11  bring  along  your  tubs,  I  '11 
give  you  a  tub-full  on  't  at  that  price,  and  make 
money,  too.  That  are  leetle  pitcher- full,  wife!" 
Ben  by  this  time  had  run  the  comical  girdle  around 
the  milky  subject ;  he  appreciated  its  fun  ;  he  threw 
himself  back  in  the  chair  with  a  hearty  ha,  ha,  which 
made  the  saloon  ring.  He  then  paid  his  two 
dollars  without  further  remark  than  "  that  it  was 
well  the  Fourth  did  n't  come  every  day." 


THE   GLORIOUS   FOURTH   IN   BOSTON.  217 

"  There  is  no  use  in  paying  for  things  we  don't 
eat,"  said  his  wife.  "  We  may  as  well  take  them 
crackers  along  for  the  children  ;  they  '11  want  them 
before  night."  The  waiter  made  no  objection,  and 
the  crackers  were  deposited  in  the  bag. 

Strengthened  in  body,  but  weaker  in  pocket,  our 
friend?  left  the  confectioner's,  and  sallied  forth  once 
more  into  the  thronged  streets.  To  Mrs.  Ben  it  ap 
peared  every  moment  as  if  they  must  be  run  over. 
Ben  carried  the  boy,  and  she  was  so  afraid  of  losing 
the  girl  that  she  carried  her  more  than  half  way. 
Thanks  to  that  stranger  lady,  the  all-important  pur 
chase  of  the  summer  dress  was  made  very  reason 
ably,  but  it  was  the  only  purchase  which  was  made 
to  advantage.  Our  country  friends  were  cheated  in 
everything  eke,  paying  large  prices  for  poor  articles, 
believing,  in  the  simplicity  of  their  hearts,  every 
word  which  the  shopmen  told  them.  What  did 
Ben  know  about  shopping  in  Boston  1  What  did 
he  know  about  prices  ?  He  was  used  to  paying  for 
his  purchases  in  butter  and  eggs. 

The  sun  at  length  grew  weary  of  his  hot  journey, 
and  his  spirits  began  to  flag.  Slowly  he  sought  his 
western  home.  All  in  crimson  and  gold  came  out 
the  lords  of  the  bed-chamber,  to  welcome  him  to 
his  rest.  He  retired  in  glory,  and  lovely  evening, 
with  her  gentle  dews,  succeeded  him,  to  minister  to 
the  parched  earth.  She  was  hailed  with  joy  by 
19 


218  THE   GLORIOUS   FOURTH    IN    BOSTOX. 

thousands.  And  among  those  who  earliest  sought 
the  scene  of  the  approaching  display  were  Ben  and 
his  family. 

In  the  course  of  their  shopping,  they  had  wandered 
to  a  remote  part  of  the  city,  and  were  obliged  to  travel 
a  long  distance  again  to  reach  the  Common.  The 
tired  children  hung  their  heavy  heads,  and  it  seemed 
to  both  father  and  mother  as  if  nothing  in  the  world 
but  fireuxrrks  could  keep  them  on  their  feet  longer. 
As  it  was,  they  went  with  weary  steps  and  slow. 
When  they  reached  Park-street,  Ben  pulled  out  his 
watch.  It  had  kept  up  within  half  an  hour.  Ben 
"  reckoned  that  was  smart  for  the  old  'un  ;"  so,  shak 
ing  it  again,  by  way  of  encouragement,  he  replaced 
it,  carefully  adjusting  the  chain,  in  order  to  have  it 
show  to  the  best  advantage.  This  he  had  afterwards 
occasion  to  remember. 

Early  as  it  was,  the  Common  was  already  crowd 
ed.  Our  party  could  not  get  near  enough  to  the 
pond  to  investigate  the  wherefore  of  the  mysterious 
fountain  ;  so  they  contented  themselves  with  watch 
ing  its  sparkling  jet,  above  that  sea  of  heads. 

"  Can't  we  sit  down  ? "  said  Mrs.  Ben  -  L  can't 
stand  any  longer,  for  all  the  fireworks  in  Boston." 

"  Yes,  we  must  find  a  seat,  somehow ;  there  are 
aome  empty  ones  't  other  end  of  the  Common  ;  let 's 
take  'em  while  we  can.  The  fire  things  will  look 


THE    GLORIOCS   FOURTH   IN   BOSTON.  219 

better  furder  of,  and  we  shan't  be  so  likely  to  get 
hit" 

This  salutary  fear  expedited  Mrs.  Ben's  move 
ments  somewhat,  and  of  all  the  remote  seats  she 
chose  the  remotest. 

Thus  accommodated,  with  their  attention  divided 
between  the  strange  and  busy  scene  before  them  and 
the  tired  children  with  them,  time  passed  rapidly. 
The  babies  cried,  —  were  stuffed  with  cake  and  can 
dy,  anything  to  keep  them  still ;  cried  again,  fell 
asleep  — woke  —  cried  again,  and  begged  to  go  home. 
What  pleasure  could  it  give  to  their  weary  little  eyes 
to  see  fireworks  ?  A  sweet  nap  in  their  own  little 
beds  was  far  better  than  any  display  the  whole 
world  could  get  up. 

"  I  shall  be  glad  when  it  is  over  with,"  said  Mrs. 
Ben ;  "  the  children  are  getting  cross  as  pipers." 

"  They  '11  begin  now  pretty  soon,"  said  Ben  ; 
"  here,  give  me  the  boy,  and  I  '11  walk  about  with 
him." 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  can  stand  it,"  said  his  wife ; 
"  my  feet  are  as  big  as  two,  now,  a  walking  on  these 
hard  stones." 

As  Ben  passed  back  and  forth,  lulling  the  heir 
in  his  arms,  a  man  near  by,  who  was  whistling, 
looked  up  and  remarked, 

"  I  reckon  we  shall  have  it,  afore  long." 

"  Have  what  ?  "  said  Ben. 


220  THE   GLORIOUS   FOURTH    IN    BOSTOX. 

"  That  ar  shower,  out  yonder." 

"  Whe-w-w,"  said  Ben,  standing  stock  still,  and 
surveying,  for  the  first  time,  the  black  and  muster 
ing  clouds. 

"  Them  looks  plaguy  like  it ;  but  it  may  all 
blow  round  't  other  way ;  there  is  no  tellin', 
and  I  kind  o'  reckon  it  will,  as  long  as  it  is  the 
Fourth." 

"  It  won't  scatter  till  we  have  a  taste  of  it,"  said 
the  man. 

As  if  to  verify  his  words,  the  wind  rose  suddenly, 
bowed  the  heads  of  the  proud  elms,  and  rushed  on. 
Another  and  another  gust.  The  low  thunder 
growled  in  the  distance  —  the  clock  struck  eight. 
Amid  great  shouting,  which  drowned  the  wind  and 
the  thunder,  a  rocket  went  up,  and  another.  Faster 
and  faster  came  the  storm.  The  great  elms  bent 
before  it;  the  lightning  flashed;  the  thunder  gath 
ered,  peal  upon  peal ;  it  burst  in  one  tremendous 
crash  over  the  heads  of  the  wondering  crowd.  In 
stantly,  as  if  this  were  the  signal  for  the  opening  of 
heaven's  flood-gates,  the  rain  poured  down  in  tor 
rents.  One  moment  of  breathless  consternation  was 
succeeded  by  one  of  indescribable  confusion.  The 
immense  crowd  scattered  as  if  by  magic  ;  they  ran 
over  each  other ;  men  shouted  ;  women  screamed ; 
children  cried.  Another  flash  —  another  crash. 


THE   GLORIOUS   FOURTH    IN   BOSTON.  221 

Can  that  struggling  throng  escape  alive?  What 
will  become  of  those  little  children  ? 

"  That  beats  all  nater !  "  said  Ben,  after  the  sec 
ond  peal ;  "  none  of  these  gimcracks  can  go  ahead  o' 
that !  " 

Up  to  this  moment  he  had  been  looking  on  with 
intense  interest,  as  he  was  remote  from  the  crowd  ; 
but  now  the  living  tide  was  sweeping  by  him,  and 
he  found  he  must  fight  manfully,  if  he  would  keep 
his  flock  together.  He  took  a  child  on  each  shoul 
der,  his  wife  clung  to  his  arm,  and,  thus  breasting 
the  living  waves,  he  kept  his  own,  and  brought  them 
safely  to  the  shelter  of  a  corner.  Here  he  stopped 
a  moment  to  recover  breath  and  think. 

Mrs.  Ben  was  crying ;  the  children  were  crying. 
"  We  never  shall  get  home  alive,"  said  she ;  "  I  am 
wet  to  my  skin." 

"  La,  yes,  we  shall,  too,"  said  Ben;  "it  won't 
rain  so  long,  and,  besides,  it 's  nothing  but  summer 
rain,  —  't  wont  hurt  nobody." 

"  Why,  I  'm  all  of  a  shiver,"  said  his  wife. 

"  Well,  you  cooled  off  too  quick,"  said  Ben;  "  sit 
down  under  this  tree,  and  I  '11  put  my  coat  over  you 
and  the  children." 

"  I  think  I  can  stand  here  safely  a  moment," 
said  a  gentle  voice  quite  near. 

Ben  started  ;  he  thought  he  recognized  the  voice, 
and  the  next  flash  of  lightning  told  him  he  was 
19* 


222  THE   GLORIOUS   FOURTH   IN   BOSTON. 

right.  It  was  the  voice  of  the  stranger  lady.  A 
gentleman  was  with  her. 

"  I  want  to  know,"  said  Ben,  "  if  that 's  you  ?  " 

"  0,  here  are  my  friends,  of  whom  I  told  you," 
said  the  lady.  "  Now  I  shall  be  quite  safe  by  them, 
while  you  call  a  carriage." 

"  Safe !  I  guess  you  will !  You  need  n't  be  a 
mite  afraid  to  leave  her,"  said  Ben  to  the  gentleman. 
"  There  shan't  nothin'  touch  her  while  I  am  within 
gunshot,  I  '11  promise  you  that." 

"  He  will  take  good  care  of  me,"  said  the  lady. 
"  Do  bring  an  empty  carriage,  for  these  good  people 
must  not  try  to  walk  to  the  depot  in  this  plight. 
They  must  ride  with  us." 

"  I  reckon  we  must  ride,  at  some  rate,"  said  Ben, 
"  for  my  wife  is  clean  beat  out." 

The  gentleman  left  hastily.  Ben  moved  the  little 
girl  gently,  and  made  a  seat  for  the  lady. 

"  I  do  wish  I  had  something  or  other  to  put  over 
you,"  said  he.  "  I  'd  brought  a  'brilla,  if  I  had 
thought  of  its  rainin'  so ;  but  I  don't  think  it  rains 
quite  as  fast  as  it  did.  Bless  me !  ha'nt  you  got 
nothing  on  but  that  lace  shawl  ?  You  will  get  wet 
enough."  Now,  Ben's  coat  was  already  appropri 
ated  ;  so  was  his  handkerchief,  and  his  cravat.  He 
took  a  survey  of  himself,  wondering  if  there  were 
not  something  about  him  still  which  he  could  dis 
pense  with.  But  no,  he  could  think  of  nothing  until 


THE   GLORIOUS   FOU11TH    IN   BOSTON.  223 

he  remembered  his   vest.     Off  it  came,  and  was 
wrapped  around  the  soft  lace  collar  of  the  lady. 

"  There,"  said  Ben,  "  that  '11  keep  you  from  a  sore 
throat,  I  reckon.  It  '11  keep  you  dry  a  little,  any 
how.  You  needn't  be  afraid  on't.  'Twas  span 
clean  this  morning." 

It  was  somewhat  questionable  whether  the  lady 
would  not  have  preferred  the  summer  rain  to  the 
Sunday  vest  which  Ben  had  worn  through  such  a 
hot  day,  and  under  his  blue  coat,  too  ;  but,  if  she  did, 
she  had  too  much  regard  for  his  feelings  to  say  so, 
though  it  must  be  acknowledged  that,  in  the  dark 
ness,  she  managed  to  tuck  her  own  pocket-handker 
chief  under  it. 

With  the  necessity  of  quieting  the  children  and 
attending  to  the  storm,  the  waiting  party  were  so 
wholly  absorbed  as  to  forget  entirely  the  fireworks  ; 
they  were  not  once  spoken  of,  though  it  was  some 
time  before  the  gentleman  returned  with  a  carriage. 
Glad  enough  were  they  of  its  friendly  shelter. 
They  bade  adieu  to  Boston  Common  and  its  great 
preparations  without  regret. 

The  lady  was  to  be  left  first,  and,  as  they  rode  on, 
Ben  gave  her  a  graphic  description  of  their  dinner 
at  the  confectioner's,  and  how  he  had  "  got  taken  in 
with  that  pitcher  of  milk,  and  the  lobster-sauce, 
and  the  cup  of  tea,  and  all  that."  It  seemed  as  if 


224  THE   GLORIOUS   FOURTH   IN    BOSTON. 

nothing  could  tire  out  Ben's  spirits.  The  gentle 
man  and  lady  laughed,  almost  to  exhaustion. 

"  We  get  out  here,"  Baid  the  lady,  when  the  car 
riage  stopped. 

"  Do  you  ?  "  said  Ben ;  "  I  'm  dreadful  sorry.  I 
wish  you  'd  come  to  see  us.  We  '11  give  you  plenty 
of  milk  and  green  grass." 

"  Yes,  do  come !  "  said  Mrs.  Ben ;  "  why  can't 
you  ? " 

"  I  certainly  shall  call,  if  I  ever  go  through  your 
town,"  said  the  lady.  "  Good-night.  0,  here  is 
your  vest,"  said  she,  laughing ;  "  I  came  very  near 
running  off  with  it.  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you." 

"  You  're  welcome  to  fifty  on  "em,"  said  Ben. 

"  Good-night,  again."  As  the  gentleman  stepped 
up  to  Ben,  and  bade  him  good-night,  he  said,  "  Your 
fare  is  all  paid,  remember." 

"  You  need  n't  do  that,"  said  Ben ;  but  the  door 
was  closed,  the  gentleman  almost  out  of  sight,  and 
the  dripping  hackman  was  mounting  his  box.  Rap 
idly,  now,  through  the  muddy  streets  drove  he,  and 
the  dep6t  was  soon  reached. 

He  helped  Ben  and  his  party  out,  and  then,  with 
the  bag  in  his  hand,  said,  "  Fifty  cents  to  pay,  sir." 

"  No  sich  thing,"  said  Ben  ;  "  I  see  the  gentle 
man  pay  you,  with  my  own  eyes." 

"  He  only  paid  me  for  two ;  there  are  four  of  yon, 
sir." 


THE   GLORIOUS   FOURTH   IN   BOSTON.         '  225 

"Them  are  only  babies,  and  they  rid  in  our 
laps." 

"  Can't  help  it ;  that 's  our  rule." 

"I  won't  gin  it  to  ye,"  said  Ben;  "you're  a 
regular  shaver." 

"  You  may  get  your  bag  as  you  can,  then,"  said 
the  driver,  coolly  mounting. 

"  My  new  frock,  and  all !  "  screamed  Mrs.  Ben ; 
"do  pay  him,  and  let  him  go,  —  we  are  getting 
drenched  here." 

"  I  guess  you  're  first  cousin  to  the  feller  I  saw 
here  this  morning,  a'nt  you?"  said  Ben,  handing 
him  the  half-dollar. 

No  reply  was  vouchsafed,  and  Ben  parted  com 
pany  with  city  hackmen  without  tears. 

It  was  rather  a  silent  party  which  the  late  train  took 
up  on  the  night  of  the  Glorious  Fourth.  All  were 
wet,  weary,  and  disappointed.  Ben  made  an  effort 
to  let  off  a  squib  or  two,  but  they  fell  to  the  ground. 
The  children  slept,  and  the  mother  all  but  dreamed. 
Her  thoughts  flitted  hither  and  thither,  and  her  head 
followed  with  uncertain  motion.  Time  and  space 
seemed  annihilated.  Most  in  the  cars  were  of 
precisely  her  mind.  Suddenly  a  shrill  whistle 
started  them  to  their  feet.  It  was  repeated,  —  the 
conductor  slammed  open  the  door,  —  he  gave  the 
signal,  —  the  depot  was  reached.  The  storm  had 
all  passed  like  the  dream,  the  wind  was. heard  no 


226  THE   GLORIOUS   FODKTH    IN    BOSTON. 

more,  and  the  silvery  moon  was  now  riding  like  a 
triumphant  queen  through  the  light-artillery  of 
flying  clouds.  And  there,  just  under  the  shed,  as 
if  he  had  not  stirred  since  morning,  was  Dob,  still 
eating  sorel  and  spearmint.  Tim  was  on  the 
wagon-seat,  fast  asleep,  and  a  sound  shaking  com 
pleted  what  the  whistle  had  only  begun. 

Ben  thought  he  would  look  at  the  "  old  un,"  and 
see  if  it  took  Dob  as  long  to  go  home  as  it  did  to 
come.  He  felt  in  this  pocket,  —  he  felt  in  the 
other,  —  he  went  back  to  the  first  one,  and  felt 
them  all  over  again ;  —  no  watch  was  there,  —  it  was 
gone,  clean  gone,  forever,  —  and  it  was  grandsir's, 
too!  

"  You  are  rather  late,  this  morning,"  said  Mr. 
Morton,  to  Ben  Jones.  "  What  is  the  matter  ?  did 
you  go  on  your  carouse  yesterday  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  did,"  said  Ben,  digging  away  indus 
triously. 

"Have  you  lamed  your  arms,  that  you  move 
them  so  stiffly  ?  " 

"  Got  the  rheumatiz."  Ben  dug  away ;  he  was 
in  the  very  unusual  mood  of  silence.  Mr.  Morton 
left  him  until  a  few  hours'  labor  had  limbered  him 
a  little.  On  his  return,  he  found  him  more  sociable. 

"  Did  you  go  to  Boston,  yesterday  ?  "  asked  he, 
again. 


THE   GLORIOUS   FOURTH   IN   BOSTON.  227 

"  Go  ?     I  guess  I  did,"  said  Ben,  lookin|  up. 

"  Well,  did  you  have  a  good  time  of  it  ?  " 

"  A  good  time  ?  If  't  wan't  the  tarnalest  toughest 
job  I  ever  did  in  my  life,  then  I  '11  give  up  beat !  " 

"  Why,  what  was  the  matter  ?  Did  your  wife 
go?" 

"  Yes,  wife  and  I  and  the  babies ;  and  't  was 
hotter  there  than  seven  blazes.  If  we  could  ha' 
stood  still  long  enough,  we  should  ha'  baked  any 
where.  The  children,  they  cried,  and  we  had  to 
keep  a  fesdin'  'em,  —  and  they  are  all  of  'em,  all 
three,  sick  a-bed  to-day,  with  the  dysentery." 

"  Why,  you  did  have  a  hard  time,  sure  enough," 
said  Mr.  Morton. 

"A  hard  time?"  said  Ben,  fairly  dropping  his 
hoe,  and  looking  up,  —  "I  guess  you 'd  think  so  ! 
Why,  Bub  lost  his  hat,  to  set  out  with,  and  that 
cost  me  a  whole  dollar ;  then  we  got  left  to  the 
wrong  house,  for  Simon  had  moved,  and  had  to  walk 
on  them  ere  biling-hot  bricks  a  mile  or  so,  and 
found  Sim  wan't  to  home,  nother ;  then  we  come 
back,  and  got  a  dinner,  and  they  axed  me  two  dol 
lars  for  a  beetle  pitcher  of  milk,  and  one  thing  and 
another ;  and  then  we  shopped  and  carried  the 
young  uns  till  we  ached  like  a  blister ;  and  we  jest 
got  sot  down  on  the  Common,  kind  o'  comfortable,  a 
little,  when  all  that  happened." 

Ben  broke  off,  and  began  to  dig  furiously. 


228  TILE   GLORIOUS   FOURTH   IN   BOSTON. 

"  I  suppose  you  did  not  see  the  fireworks,  then, 
after  all?" 

"  See  'em ! "  said  Ben ;  "  I  guess  we  did  n't.  There 
was  nothing  but  a  little  siz  —  siz  —  sizzle,  and  down 
came  the  blackest  thunder-storm,  I  guess,  you  ever 
seed,  right  on  top  of  'em,  and  put  'em  all  out.  And 
it  never  rained  so,  I  '11  be  bound,  since  Noah's  cousins 
got  a  duckin'.  We  were  as  wet  as  a  batch  of 
drowned  kittens,  in  less  than  no  time,  every  one  of 

110    "        " 

us. 

"  You  did  have  a  rough  time  of  it,  I  think,"  said 
Mr.  Morton,  smiling. 

"  That  a'nt  the  half  on 't,  either,"  said  Ben, 
growing  communicative  with  sympathy.  "  The  rain 
spiled  all  the  Sunday  rigging,  and  a  bran  new  frock, 
in  the  bag,  wife  had  just  bought;  and,  what's  more 
nor  all  that,  some  of  them  Boston  geu'lmon  hauled 
out  old  grandsir's  watch,  clean  as  a  whistle,  and  off 
with  it,  and  that 's  the  last  I  shall  see  hide  nor  hair 
on't.  'Twan't  worth  much  to  go;  but  wife,  she 
had  sot  her  heart  on  melting  it  down  into  a  spoon ; 
but  I  'd  gin  it  to  'em,  gladly,  if  they  'd  only  show  me 
how  they  got  it." 

Mr.  Morton  laughed  so  heartily  that  Ben  had  to 
join  him. 

"  It  will  prove  rather  an  expensive  trip,  Ben," 
said  he. 

"  Expensive !  "  said  Ben,  "  all  I  can  earn  in  one 


THE   GLOKIOUS   FOURTH   IN   EOSTON.  229 

month  won't  make  it  up,  to  say  nothing  of  doctors' 
bills.  Everything  seemed  to  go  agin  us,  somehow ; 
everything  except  a  real  lady  we  met.  She  was 
kind  as  could  be.  We  should  have  fared  worse 
still,  without  her,  I  reckon.  I  wonder  if  you  don't 
know  her  ?  She  looks  most  'zackly  like  Anna  Ship- 
man,  only  she  is  some  taller." 

"  I  do  not  think  I  do,"  replied  Mr.  Morton. 

"  She  was  a  pretty  cretur,  I  can  tell  you,"  said 
Ben. 

"  I  suppose  you  will  not  care  much,  then,  to  go 
to  Boston  again  to  keep  the  Fourth  ?  " 

"  I  s'pose  I  shan't,"  said  Ben,  digging  away, 
"till  I'm  some  older.  I've  cut  my  eye-teeth !  " 

"  It  is  not  always  the  costly  pleasures  which  we 
enjoy  the  most,"  remarked  Mr.  Morton. 

"  That 's  a  fact,"  said  Ben.  "  I  've  been  down  to 
the  Crossing  arter  a  skein  of  yarn,  some  pleasant 
evening,  and  the  work  all  done,  wife  and  babies  and 
all,  and  had  a  great  deal  better  time  on  V 

Ben  dug  away,  apparently  so  determined  to  make 
up  for  time  to  him  worse  than  lost,  that  Saturday 
night  found  the  job  done,  for  which  he  received  a 
large  week's  wages.  This  was  generously  given,  in 
consideration  of  his  wzz's-adventures  on  the  Glorious 
Fourth. 

20 


FIRST  TRIALS  OF  A  YOUNG  PHYSICIAN. 

A  YELLOW  chaise,  drawn  by  a  stout  black  horse, 
was  seen  advancing  towards  the  setting  sun  ;  within 
it  were  Dr.  Harris  and  his  young  bride.  The  doctor 
was  looking  over  his  horse's  ears  in  silence,  and 
with  a  sad  and  abstracted  look.  A  sudden  turn  in 
the  road  brought  to  view  a  village,  which  nestled 
under  the  protecting  wing  of  one  of  the  western 
purple  clouds. 

Mrs.  Harris,  whom  for  dear  old  acquaintance 
sake  we  will  call  Mary,  looked  up  at  her  husband, 
surprised.  "  That 's  not  it  ?  " 

"  That  is  it,  Mary." 

"  It  is  quite  a  city  ;  from  your  description,  I  ex 
pected  to  find  only  log  huts,  with  a  white  house 
scattered  here  and  there.  Why,  Charles !  what 
more  could  a  young  physician  ask  for  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  if  he  could  have  it  all  to  himself;  but 
when  he  must  pull  with  twenty  other  doctors,  it 
does  not  seem  quite  so  attractive." 

"But  you  told  me,"  said  Mary,  with  a  laugh, 
"that  but  one  of  them  had  been  liberally  educated. 
I  do  not  think  you  have  any  occasion  to  fear  them." 

"  That  is  so." 


FIRST    TKIALS   OF   A   YOUNG   PHYSICIAN.       231 

"  You  have  been  so  well  educated,  Charles,  and 
have  a  year's  experience  of  practice  besides.  I  think 
your  chances  of  success  are  good,  if  you  will  not  get 
discouraged  by  your  first  trials." 

"  You  have  very  little  idea,  Mary,  what  an  un 
dertaking  it  is  for  a  young  physician  to  start  as  a 
stranger  in  a  strange  place." 

"  You  are  getting  better  of  your  youth  every 
day  ;  look  here  !  gray  hairs  already.  You  will  be 
respected  !  "  And  the  young  wife  playfully  wound 
her  fingers  around  a  pet  curl. 

"  I  know  one  thing,"  said  the  doctor,  in  a  more 
cheerful  tone. 

"  What  is  that  ?  " 

"  We  will  not,  at  any  rate,  trouble  about  the 
future,  until  the  honeymoon  is  over." 

"Nor  then  either,"  replied  she ;  "if  we  keep  up 
brave  hearts,  and  live  within  our  means,  we  shall 
certainly  succeed  in  time.  But  where  are  you 
driving  me  to  ?  " 

"  This  is  Mrs.  Bailey's,  our  boarding-house;  and 
there  she  is  at  the  window,  looking  for  us.  Now 
for  a  Western  welcome !  " 

This  Mary  certainly  received,  as  she  entered 
their  new  and  unpretending  home.  The  doctor  had 
selected  the  cheapest  boarding-house  which  was 
comfortable,  or  would  be  considered  respectable ;  for 
he  had  nothing  to  depend  upon  but  his  own  exer- 


232        FIRST   TRIALS   OF   A    YOUNG   PHYSICIAN. 

tions.  Yet  he  felt  embarrassed  by  the  necessity  of 
making  a  good  appearance  in  the  selection  of  his 
office,  which,  being  in  a  public  square,  did  exceed  in 
rent  what  he  felt  able  to  pay.  There  was,  however, 
no  help  for  it;  and  he  contented  himself  with  the 
reflection  that  his  expenses,  though  serious  for  him, 
were  yet  as  small  as  they  could,  with  propriety,  be 
made. 

His  wife  kept  a  journal  of  his  first  efforts  to 
establish  himself  at  the  West,  and  from  this  we 
make  our  story. 

"  At  first,"  she  writes,  "  matters  went  on  swim 
mingly.  A  little  furniture  was  purchased  for  the 
office,  and  I  bought  a  set  of  cheap  curtains,  which  I 
chose  to  make  up  in  a  most  elegant  and  fashionable 
style,  and  the  making  interested  me  much.  When 
they  were  hung,  we  felt  that  they  well  paid  for  the 
labor  bestowed  upon  them,  for  they  gave  our  room 
an  air  of  taste  and  refinement  which  it  had  not 
before.  The  library  was  then  arranged ;  a  small 
one,  it  is  true,  but  a  valuable  one  it  was,  and  in  a 
conspicuous  part  of  it  was  placed  the  doctor's  more 
valuable  box  of  instruments,  the  parting  present 
from  his  father.  Alas,  as  yet  they  had  seen  no 
service ;  but  I  comforted  myself  for  this  with  the 
reflection  that  the  cases  were  very  elegant,  and 
added  much  to  the  looks  of  our  library-shelves. 
Thus  occupied,  a  few  happy  days  glided  swiftly  by, 


FIRST   TRIALS   OF   A   YOUNG    PHYSICIAN.       233 

and  then  our  pleasant  work  was  all  finished.  We 
had  found  a  place  for  everything,  and  everything 
was  in  its  place ;  and  there  was  not  even  the  shadow 
of  an  excuse  for  again  disturbing  them.  The  doctor 
could  lay  his  hand  on  anything  in  the  dark ;  even 
the  green  cloth  on  the  little  centre-table  had  been 
smoothed  to  the  last  extremity  of  smoothness,  and 
the  negligent  ease  with  which  the  smaller  profes 
sional  works  lay  mixed  up  with  odd  numbers  of 
Johnson's  Chirurgical  Review,  could  not  be  im 
proved.  A  handsome  pocket-case,  in  bright  red 
morocco,  and  a  bright  tooth-extracter,  were  mingled 
in  with  the  books,  to  give  a  practical  expression  to 
the  table.  To  complete  the  whole,  a  sign  had  been 
swung  out  from  the  office-window,  and  the  name  of 
'  Dr.  Harris '  shone  in  golden  letters  from  a  blue 
ground.  A  handsome  sign  that  was,  too,  and  it 
cost  us  the  dollars  —  more  than  we  could  afford 
to  pay ;  but,  then,  Dr.  Harris  was  just  commencing, 
and  it  was  of  vital  importance  that  his  name  should 
take  the  passers-by.  This  being  done,  and  the 
chairs  rearranged  for  the  twentieth  time,  perhaps, 
we  were  obliged  to  sit  down,  and  wait  for  profes 
sional  calls. 

"  For  a  few  days  we  managed  very  well ;  I  took 

my  sewing  to  the  office,  and  Charles  read  aloud  to 

me ;  and,  as  it  was  too  soon  to  expect  business,  we 

had  no  occasion  to  be  disappointed  that  it  did  not 

20* 


234        FIRST    TRIALS   OF   A   YOONJ   PHYSICIAN. 

come.  Thus  passed  many,  to  me,  very  pleasant 
days.  I  took  '  no  note  of  time,'  and  was,  therefore, 
astonished,  when  the  doctor  said,  one  morning, 
'Mary,  did  you  know  that  my  sign  has  been  out 
three  weeks,  and  I  have  not  been  called  upon  even 
to  extract  a  tooth  ?  ' 

"  '  Three  weeks  !  it  cannot  be  possible  ? '  said  I, 
dropping  my  work. 

"  '  Yes,  it  is  three  weeks,  and  I  have  done  no 
thing,  either,  in  the  way  of  study.  This  is  your 
fault,  you  steal-time  !  it  is  as  much  as  I  can  do  to 
entertain  you.'  And  he  gave  me  what  might  be 
called  a  strong  expression  of  displeasure ;  —  whether 
it  was  or  not,  is  another  thing. 

" '  Perhaps  you  will  not  have  a  call  in  three 
months,'  said  I,  by  way  of  comforting  him ;  '  in 
deed,  I  have,  from  the  first,  scarcely  expected  that 
you  would.  The  people  have  hardly  learned  your 
name ;  still,  it  is  true,  your  time  is  too  precious  to 
be  thrown  away  on  me,  after  this  fashion.  You 
must  commence,  at  once,  that  famous  course  of  study 
you  planned  for  yourself;  and,  during  study  hours, 
I  will  stay  in  our  room,  at  Mrs.  Bailey's.' 

"  I  did  this,  though  it  cost  an  effort ;  it  was 
lonely  for  me,  yet  I  felt  repaid  when  I  perceived 
that  the  doctor  was  happier  for  returning  to  his  pro 
fessional  studies ;  but,  alas !  time  passed,  and  brought 


FIRST   TRIALS   OF   A   YOUNG   PHYSICIAN.        235 

no  business,  and  the  doctor's  spirits  fell  again  to 
zero. 

"  '  Mary,'  said  he  to  me,  one  day,  '  let  us  pull 
up  stakes,  and  go  to  the  West.  If  you  say  so,  I  '11 
start  to-morrow ;  I  know  I  can  find  something  to  do 
out  there,  and  I  see,  plainly  enough,  that  here  I 
have  no  chance  at  all.' 

"  '  I  will  go,  if  you  wish  it,'  replied  I,  '  but  it  is 
not  a  plan  which  recommends  itself  to  my  judg 
ment.  You  will  leave  behind  you  the  reputation 
of  a  man  who  is  easily  discouraged,  and  this  would 
be  a  professional  injury  to  you ;  I  do  not  think  we 
have  occasion  to  feel  very  anxious  about  the  future ; 
we  are  sure  of  a  support  for  six  months.  Let  us 
remain  that  time,  and  then,  if  you  have  not  had  a 
single  call,  we  will  begin  to  talk  about  Westward 
ho!' 

"The  doctor  threw  down  a  sharp  instrument, 
with  which  he  was  punching  holes  in  his  fore-finger, 
took  up  a  book,  but  answered  never  a  word.  The 
cloud  was  settling,  indeed  had  settled,  over  him. 
With  a  sigh,  I  drew  my  chair  near  the  window, 
and  began  to  look  out  upon  the  busy  multitude,  as 
they  passed  and  re-passed  ;  and  (may  I  be  forgiven !) 
I  could  not  repress  the  wish  that  some  accident,  or 
some  sudden  fit  of  illness,  would  be  the  occasion 
of  a  timely  call  upon  Dr.  Harris.  But  no  accident, 
or  fit  of  apoplexy,  answered  to  my  selfish  demand. 


236       FIRST   TRIALS   OF   A    YOUNG   PHYSICIAN. 

The  busy  multitude  poured  along  their  beaten  track, 
and  to  all  appearance  health  kept  them  company. 

"  At  length  my  attention  was  attracted  by  an  old 
wagon,  to  which  was  harnessed  a  skeleton  of  a  horse. 
He,  at  least,  poor  beast !  might  have  been  benefited 
by  Dr.  Harris'  professional  services.  This  wagon 
was  filled  with  children,  and  upon  the  front  seat 
was  a  pale-looking  woman,  apparently  the  mother  of 
them,  with  a  crying  baby  in  her  arms.  These  were 
hopeful  signs,  which  became  exceedingly  encourag 
ing  when  the  driver  reined  in,  and  the  old  skeleton 
and  load  of  children  and  the  pale  woman  all  stopped 
before  our  office-door.  She  looked  up  to  our  gold 
and  blue  sign,  now  swinging  musically  in  the  south 
wind,  and  my  heart  leaped  to  my  mouth.  I  thought 
we  had  such  a  load  of  patients !  but  only  the  driver 
dismounted,  and  he  went  into  a  tobacco-shop,  and  the 
pale  woman  sat  still,  tossing  the  sickly  child  until 
he  returned ;  and  then  they  all  drove  away,  and 
thus  ended  —  our  first  alarm  ! 

"  I  can  assure  you  I  troubled  myself  to  watch  no 
more  wagons  that  day,  but  on  the  next  it  so  chanced 
that  we  were  both  standing  at  the  same  window, 
silently  looking  down  the  street,  and  sighing  now 
and  then  over  '  hope  long  deferred.'  As  we  stood 
there,  we  saw  a  young  girl  on  the  opposite  side-walk, 
looking  very  earnestly  at  us.  When  she  caught 
eight  of  the  new  sign,  she  immediately  crossed  cw.r. 


FIRST   TRIALS   OF   A   YOUNG   PIIYSICIAN.       237 

"  The  doctor  negligently  threw  open  his  window, 
and  stood  drumming  on  the  sill.  The  girl  looked 
into  his  face,  and  seemed  to  say,  '  Yes,  you  are  the 
one  ?  and  she  also  quickened  her  speed.  We  lis 
tened  breathlessly  to  hear  her  foot-fall  on  the  stairs, 
but  all  was  still.  She  had  turned  in  another  direc 
tion,  and  I  saw  the  flutter  of  her  faded  calico  as  she 
disappeared  around  the  corner. 

"1  caught  Dr.  Harris'  eye,  and  we  both  laughed 
merrily  at  our  disappointment. 

"  '  Why !  did  n't  you  think  she  was  coming  here?' 

"  '  Most  certainly ;  and  I  believe  she  did  intend 
to.' 

" '  So  do  I ;  so  there  goes  my  first  case.' 

"  We  speculated  longer  on  the  probable  cause  of 
this  girl's  changing  her  mind  than  any  one  would 
believe  possible  who  had  not  been  placed  in  similar 
circumstances ;  but  we  never  satisfied  ourselves  with 
regard  to  it,  further  than  to  settle  it  in  our  own 
minds  that  she  had  almost  made  us  a  call.  Thus 
were  we  laughing  and  comforting  ourselves,  when 
the  tea-bell  called  us  home.  We  could  hear  it  from 
Mrs.  Bailey's  distinctly,  especially  when  the  office- 
window  was  open. 

"  Time  passed,  but  we  had  not  even  another  alarm. 
I  began  to  hear  of  the  far  West  again,  and  we  had 
silent  walks  back  and  forth  from  our  boarding-house. 

"  One  day  the  doctor  seemed  so  exceedingly  down- 


238       FIRST   TRIALS   Of   A    YOUNG    PHYSICIAN. 

hearted  that  to  cheer  him  I  ventured  to  propose  we 
should  take  a  ride  out  to  an  Indian  settlement  which 
I  had  long  wished  to  visit.  He  gladly  fell  in  with 
the  proposal ;  —  it  gave  him  something  to  do.  Long 
did  I  remember  that  afternoon.  The  autumn  sun 
shone  brightly  and  hopefully,  and  the  scenery  was 
beautiful  about  us,  and  the  huge  forest-trees  were 
like  burnished  crimson  and  gold.  I  enjoyed  every 
thing  as  we  rode  along,  and  even  the  doctor  looked 
nearly  as  happy  as  if  he  were  charging  his  fifteen 
dollars  a  day.  It  was  quite  dusk  when  we  returned, 
and,  more  for  ceremony  than  anything  else,  we  made 
our  first  stop  at  the  office.  I  held  the  horse,  while 
Charles  ran  up.  In  a  few  minutes  he  returned, 
looking  quite  disturbed. 

" '  What  do  you  think  has  happened,  Mary  ? '  said 
he. 

" '  What  ? '  inquired  I,  alarmed ;  '  have  you  had  a 
call?' 

"  '  Yes ;  and  lost  the  job  of  extracting  three  teeth ! 
So  much  for  going  out  riding,  instead  of  staying  in 
my  office ! ' 

"  I  could  not  say  a  word.  Three  teeth !  And  how 
many  other  odd  jobs  might  that  have  brought  in  its 
train !  Drawing  three  teeth !  an  operation  which 
Dr.  Harris  performed  better  than  any  physician  in 
the  country !  Was  it  not  a  sore  disappointment  ? 
It  would  have  made  such  a  good  commencement  for 


FIRST   TRIALS   OP   A    YOUNG    PHYSICIAN.       239 

him  !  I  could  only  reply,  with  a  forced  calmness, 
'  It  is  the  last  job  you  shall  ever  lose  because  you 
are  out  riding  with  me.'  I  could  not  eat  my  sup 
per.  Mrs.  Bailey  kindly  inquired  if  I  was  ill. 
Charles  laughed,  and  told  her  1  was  ill  of  three  old 
teeth. 

"  No  young  wife  wholly  escapes  being  homesick 
when  she  first  leaves  her  home.  The  fit  will  come, 
earlier  or  later.  Most  frequently  it  is  at  dusk  that 
she  recalls  the  distant  ones,  and  remembers  that  she 
has  voluntarily  separated  herself  from  them;  and 
sometimes  she  mourns  for  the  moment. 

"  At  such  an  hour  as  this,  I  was  sitting  alone  at 
the  office-window.  Thoughts  of  my  mother  had 
opened  the  flood-gates,  and  I  was  weeping.  Just 
then  Charles  came  quickly  up  stairs,  singing,  in  a 
deep,  rich,  melodious  voice,  '  Begone,  dull  care.' 
By  the  lingering  light,  I  saw  his  fine  face  was  ex 
ceedingly  animated,  and  he  looked  altogether  so  very 
attractive,  as  he  approached  me,  that  I  realized  that, 
if  I  had  left  much,  I  had  found  much. 

"  '  Mary,'  said  he,  '  I 've  had  a  call!  I've  had  a 
call  > ' 

"  '  You  are  joking,  Charles.' 

"  '  Ton  honor  I  am  not.  You  remember  Slayton, 
the  gentleman  you  thought  so  polite  ?  He  has  a 
violent  cold,  and  just  asked  me  to  send  him  some 
thing  for  it.' 


240        FIRST   TRIALS   OF    A    YOUNG    PHYSICIAN. 

"  A  light  was  instantly  struck.  If  a  stranger  had 
happened  in  then,  he  might  have  thought  a  fortune 
had  suddenly  fallen  to  us.  Never  was  a  dose  of 
medicine  prepared  with  greater  care,  or  enveloped 
in  neater  style.  Saving  the  perfumery,  it  would 
compare  well  with  a  love-note,  according  to  the  best 
of  my  recollection.  Dr.  Harris  danced  away  to  his 
own  music  to  deliver  it.  I  lighted  a  lamp,  and  tak 
ing  down  a  huge  blank-book,  placed  it  on  the  centre- 
table,  and  put  a  pen  nicely  mended  on  its  cover,  that 
everything  might  be  convenient  for  Dr.  Harris  to 
make  his  first  charge,  which  he  did,  whistling  the 
while.  This  entry  was  a  blessing  to  us.  It  fur 
nished  a  little  peg,  on  which  we  hung  as  many  hopes 
as  it  would  bear,  —  and  rather  more,  for  the  prescrip 
tion  worked  like  a  charm,  and  Mr.  Slayton  did  not 
come  again  for  professional  advice. 

"  For  some  time  nothing  more  was  said  about  the 
West.  Study  hours  gradually  became  regular,  and 
seemed  to  be  the  business  of  the  day,  —  the  only 
business,  judging  from  the  first  page  in  that  blank- 
book,  where  Mr.  Slayton's  name  still  stood  '  alone,  in 
its  glory.' 

"  One  day  I  was  sitting  at  the  office-window,  en 
gaged  in  my  old  employment,  musing.  I  was  over 
turning  carriages,  and  making  old  gentlemen  step  on 
orange-peel  and  break  limbs,  that  Dr.  Harris  might 
have  employment.  A  very  spirited  horse  actually 


FIRST   TRIALS   OF    A    YOUNG   PHYSICIAN.       241 

came  prancing  down  the  street,  A  lady  was  driv 
ing  him,  and  she  looked  much  frightened.  However, 
the  horse  did  well  enough  until  he  encountered  a  set 
of  quarrelling  dogs,  when  he  became  frightened,  and 
reared.  The  ladies  screamed ;  a  man  sprang  to  their 
assistance ;  but  the  horse  bounded  around  the  corner, 
and  was  out  of  sight  in  an  instant.  '  0,  Charles ! ' 
said  I ;  but  he  was  already  half  across  the  square. 
I  remained  at  the  window,  watching  the  crowd,  with 
contending  emotions.  I  did  hope  no  one  was  hurt, 
and  yet  if  any  one  should  be,  I  did  hope  Dr.  Harris 
would  be  there  in  season  ;  he  was  so  famous  as  a  sur 
geon,  and  had  such  a  fine  box  of  instruments !  — 
there  was  not  another  like  it  in  the  state.  '  Perhaps,' 
thought  I,  '  I  had  better  take  it  down,  and  have  it 
all  ready,  in  case  of  need.'  I  climbed  up  into  a 
chair,  and  was  just  turning  the  key  of  the  book -case, 
when  I  heard  the  doctor  coming  up,  laughing. 
With  a  blush,  I  sprang  down  from  the  chair. 

"  '  What  is  the  matter  ? '  said  I,  half  inclined  to 
be  vexed. 

"  '  Would  you  believe  it,  Mary  ?  —  there  were 
eight  doctors  around  the  carriage  before  I  could 
reach  it ;  and  four  were  drawing  one  of  the  ladies 
off!' 

"  '  Well,'  said  I  heartily,  '  I  do  hope  she  was  not 
hurt ! " 

"I  returned  to  my  work,  and  Charles  to  his 

21 


242        FIRST  TRIAL3   OP   A    YOUNG   PHYSICIAN. 

books,  but  it  was  some  time  before  I  could  sympa 
thize  fully  with  his  occasional  bursts  of  laughter. 

"  Some  time  after  this,  he  asked  me,  gravely,  if  I 
should  not  like  to  go  home  and  make  a  visit. 

"  '  And  take  you  away  from  your  business  ? ' 

"  '  Business !  I  have  not  even  used  my  lancet  since 
we  have  been  out  here.' 

"  '  But  I  thought  you  had  come  to  the  decision  that 
your  business,  for  six  months,  was,  to  remain  in  this 
office  and  study,  if  you  had  no  professional  calls,  — 
had  not  you  ? ' 

" '  Yes,  —  but  —  ' 

" « Hark !  some  one  comes ;  they  have  knocked  at 
our  door.' 

" '  Come  in,'  called  out  the  doctor,  in  a  grave  tone. 

"  A  pleasant-looking  young  girl  obeyed  the  invita 
tion,  and  I  felt  my  face  flush  with  pleasure.  I 
could  have  thanked  her  for  her  timely  call.  I  rose 
to  give  her  a  seat.  She  looked  about,  with  a  bewil 
dered  air.  '0,  I  thought — is  this  a  mantua- 
maker's  room  ? '  she  asked,  timidly. 

"  '  No;  it  is  a  doctor's  office.' 

"  '  Indeed !  I  have  made  a  mistake,'  and  she  van 
ished.  I  enjoyed  a  laugh  then  as  well  as  the  doctor, 
and  in  very  good  spirits  we  resumed  our  employ 
ments.  He  was  reading  aloud,  and  he  continued :  — 

"  la  she  dead,"  gasped  the  colonel,  without  moving 


FIRST   TRIALS   OF   A   YOUNG   PHYSICIAN.       243 

from  where  he  stood  or  relaxing  his  hold  of  Ogilvie's 
arm. 

"  No,"  replied  the  general,  turning  as  pale  as  his 
companion. 

"Then  what,  tell  me?"  whispered  Colonel  St. 
Helen,  his  eyes  almost  starting  out  of  their  sockets, 
while  the  drops  of  perspiration  stood  on  his  forehead. 
At  a  word  spoken  by  Gen.  Ogilvie  in  a  low  tone  — 

"  '  There,  Charles,  some  one  knocks,'  said  I,  start 
ing.  '  0,  dear.  Co-me  in.'  Now  a  woman  en 
tered.  I  had  learned  by  experience  not  to  be  in  an  un 
becoming  haste  to  offer  our  visitor  a  chair ;  so  I  rose 
slowly,  for  my  mind  was  full  of  the  poor  colonel. 
The  woman,  to  my  surprise,  sat  down.  I  was  silent. 

"  '  Do  you  wish  to  see  the  doctor  ? '  said  Charles, 
at  length,  recovering  from  a  sort  of  stupor. 

"  '  Yes,'  said  she,  and  was  silent  again.  The  doc 
tor  gave  me  a  significant  look,  which  I  interpreted 
'  You  had  better  retire  into  our  ante-room,'  —  which 
place,  reader,  between  ourselves,  was  no  more  nor 
less  than  our  wood-closet.  Realizing  our  good  for 
tune,  I  was  hastily  obeying,  when  my  progress  was 
arrested  by  a  sharp,  shrill  voice  saying,  '  I  called  to 
see  if  you  did  n't  want  no  washing  done.1 

"  After  this,  for  a  long  time,  the  young  physician 
was  left  to  pursue  his  studies,  undisturbed.  He  was 
growing  older,  and  wiser,  and  poorer,  daily. 

"  Once  he  seriously  proposed  the  plan  of  throw- 


244        FIRST   TRIALS   OF   A   YOUNG   PHYSICIAN. 

ing  up  his  profession  and  going  into  business.  I 
laughed  him  out  of  it.  Then  he  proposed  entering 
the  army. 

" '  Yes,  to  be  ordered  to  New  Orleans,  and  die 
there  of  yellow  fever.' 

" '  Why  not  turn  editor,  then  ? ' 

"  '  And  starve  in  a  garret  ?' 

" '  What  will  you  have  me  do,  Mary  ?  Live  we 
must.' 

t  " '  Why,  our  six  months  are  not  much  more  than 
half  out,'  said  I.  '  We  are  sure  of  a  support  for 
that  length  of  time.  Is  it  not  best  to  abide  by  our 
original  plan  until  they  have  expired  ?  Then,  if  there 
is  no  prospect  of  business  here,  we  will  look  fur 
ther.' 

" '  What  a  fool  I  was,  Mary,'  said  he,  in  reply, 
4  to  take  you  from  all  the  comforts  of  your  home, 
and  bring  you  out  here  to  starve  ! ' 

"  '  And  how  foppish  you  are  becoming  out  here  in 
the  woods ! '  said  I.  '  Only  look  in  the  glass!  What 
a  cant  you  give  your  curls  to  one  side  !  Is  that  the 
latest  style  ?  You  are  quite  an  exquisite.  0,  look ! 
there  is  another  woman,  spelling  out  your  golden 
name  ;  and  hark !  I  do  believe,  —  yes,  she  is  coming 
up!' 

"  I  was  glad  when  she  opened  the  door.  It  was 
agreeable  to  see  any  one,  particularly  at  that  cloudy 
moment. 


FIRST   TRIALS   OF   A   YOUNG   PHYSICIAN.       245 

"  '  Is  this  a  doctor's  office  ? '  she  inquired. 

"  '  Yes,'  said  I,  hastily.  « There  is  the  doctor. 
Do  you  wish  to  see  him  ? ' 

"  '  That  I  do,'  said  she. 

"  Again  the  doctor  gave  me  an  intelligent  look ; 
but  this  time  I  lingered  long  enough  to  be  sure  it 
was  not  washing  she  was  after,  and  then,  with  a 
happy  heart,  I  stepped  lightly  into  our  ante-chamber, 
and  closed  the  door.  I  made  room  for  myself  quietly 
on  a  log  of  wood,  and  sat  down.  A  little  light, 
which  came  through  a  solitary  pane  of  glass,  af 
forded  me  some  company,  and  I  busied  myself  build 
ing  airy  castles  on  the  corner-stone  of  this,  the 
doctor's  first  call.  Broad  and  high  and  beautiful 
they  were,  and  we  were  dwelling  iu  them,  respected 
and  happy.  '  And  all  this,'  said  I  to  myself,  '  for 
persevering  through  the  first  difficulties.  How  glad 
I  am  we  did  so  !  I  wonder  how  this  woman  heard 
of  him!' 

"  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  she  never  would  go.  Pleas 
ant  as  my  thoughts  were,  I  began  to  weary  of  them, 
as  dim  impressions  of  their  very  visionary  nature 
forced  themselves  upon  me.  I  was  glad  when  I  heard 
her  leave,  and  I  was  released  from  my  confinement. 
I  entered  the  office,  and  I  am  sure  my  countenance 
expressed  both  pride  and  pleasure. 

"  I  found  Dr.  Harris  leaning  on  his  table,  arranging 
his  books,  but  in  a  brown  study. 


2i6        FIRST   TRIALS   OF   A    YOUNG    PHYSICIAN. 

"  '  Well,'  said  I,  my  enthusiasm  cooling  down  sud 
denly,  '  what  is  it  ? ' 

"  '  Why,  she  thought  I  was  an  old  sweating  doctor 
who  used  to  keep  here,  and  made  me  listen  to  a  long 
catalogue  of  her  aches  and  ails ;  and  when  I  asked 
her  if  I  should  prescribe  for  her,  she  replied,  "  Why, 
to  l>e  plain  and  honest,  she  was  'fraid  of  these  ere 
young  doctors,  with  their  'pot'ecary  stuffs.  She 
had  a  mind  they  killed  about  as  many  as  they  cured; 
but,  as  I  did  n't  look  as  desateful  as  some  of  them, 
if  she  could  make  up  her  mind  to  take  my  stuff,  she 
would  come  back  and  let  me  know." ' 

"  We  never  saw  her  again,  though  many  an  hour 
I  watched  for  her,  as  for  an  absent  friend. 

"  One  very  delightful  day,  very  late  in  the  fall, 
Dr.  Harris  insisted  upon  it  that  I  should  have  a 
ride,  as  I  had  been  suffering  from  head-ache  for 
several  hours.  I  remembered  the  three  teeth,  and 
made  every  suitable  objection  ;  but  they  were  of  no 
avail.  He  went  for  a  horse,  and  I  sat  down  to  fin 
ish  off  a  letter  home.  Pretty  soon  I  heard  a  clumsy 
step  over  the  stairs,  and  then  some  one  fretted  away 
at  the  door-latch.  It  yielded,  and  an  old  man, 
ragged  and  dirty,  made  his  appearance.  He  was 
nearly  blind,  and  felt  his  way  along  with  a  stick  to 
the  table  at  which  I  was  sitting.  I  thought  of  re 
treating,  when  he  touched  his  hat  with  much  native 


FIRST   TRIALS   OF   A   YOUNG   PHYSICIAN.       247 

grace,  and,  with  a  thick  voice  and  foreign  accent, 
inquired  if  Dr.  Harris  was  in. 

"  '  Ah,  here  is  a  patient  at  last! '  thought  I.  '  Now 
how  shall  I  contrive  to  detain  him  until  the  doctor 
returns  ?  I  must  show  him  something  to  interest 
him.' 

"  '  He  will  be  in  in  one  minute,  sir,'  said  I.  '  Sit 
down.  This  is  a  delightful  day.  You  look  weary  ; 
have  you  walked  far  ?  Pray  sit  down.' 

"  '  Bless  your  swate  heart,  you  're  the  doctor's  wife, 
aren't  you?' 

"  '  Yes.' 

"  '  Well,  I  bid  ye  welcome  to  this  country  ! ' 

"'Thank  you,  —  thank  you.  Pray  be  seated. 
Have  you  long  been  ill  ? ' 

"  '  Blessings  on  ye,  my  lady,  I  an't  sick !  You  don't 
wish  I  was,  do  you  ? ' 

"  What  could  I  say  ?  Certainly  I  did  not  wish  ill 
to  the  old  man,  but  I  should  have  been  so  glad  to 
have  presented  a  patient  to  the  doctor  on  his  return ! 
I  made  some  pleasant  reply,  and  resumed  my  pen. 

"  '  I  knew  Dr.  Harris,  once,  I  did,'  said  my  vis 
itor,  seating  himself.  '  He  cured  my  old  woman  of 
rheumatiz  when  he  was  out  here  before,  and  it 's  my 
opinion  that  there  is  n't  a  doctor  in  the  country 
knows  as  much  as  he  does,  and  so  I  tells  every 
body.' 

"  I  looked  up  from  my  writing,  and  listened  with 


248       FIRST   TRIALS   OF   A    YOUNG   PHYSICIAN. 

much  complacency ;  and  from  my  heart  I  forgave 
the  old  man  for  not  being  a  patient. 

"  '  I  hearn,'  continued  he,  '  that  he  brought  his 
young  wife  to  these  parts,  and  I  have  been  onasy 
ever  since ;  and  so  to-day  I  walked  four  miles,  with 
the  help  of  my  old  stick  here,  that  I  might  bring 
her  a  present.  It  is  n't  much,  but  it  is  all  I  had  in 
the  world  to  bring.' 

"  From  a  somewhat  greased  basket  he  then  took 
out  a  paper  bag,  which  he  presented  to  me.  I  found 
it  filled  with  the  finest  plums  which  I  had  ever  seen. 
I  thanked  him  for  them  so  heartily  that  his  old  face 
brightened  up. 

" '  I  am  sorry  I  shan't  see  the  doctor,'  said  he. 
'  Won't  you  tell  him  never  to  forget  Jerry  ?  for 
Jerry  never  will  forget  him.  My  best  wishes  for 
you,  my  lady,  are,  that  you  may  be  as  happy  as  he 
is  good.  Don't  rise,  don't  rise ;  I  must  be  going. 
When  you  are  a-riding,  don't  pass  our  door.  Good- 
morning;'  and  Jerry  left  me.  It  would  have  taken 
a  very  fine  professional  call  to  have  given  me  as 
much  pleasure  as  his  had  done ;  that  I  can  truly 
say. 

"  In  this  pleasure  the  doctor  fully  shared,  and  we 
had  a  most  delightful  ride  that  afternoon ;  for  we 
had  something  very  interesting  to  talk  about,  —  but 
what  it  was  is  a  secret. 

"  '  Why,  how  bright  you  both  look ! '  said  Mrs. 


FIRST   TRIALS   OF   A   YOUNG   PHYSICIAN.       249 

Bailey,  as  we  entered  her  tea-room.  'What  has 
happened  ? ' 

"  Our  six  months  of  trial  were  drawing  to  a 
close,  and  still  Dr.  Harris  had  received  no  calls 
worth  mentioning.  I  had  for  some  time  ceased  to 
expect  them,  and  we  were  seriously  thinking  over 
the  next  step  to  be  taken. 

"  '  After  all,'  said  the  doctor,  in  reply  to  some  re 
mark  of  mine  about  our  position,  '  these  six  months 
have  not  been  lost  to  me.  I  have  read  a  great  deal 
of  medicine,  and  I  have  learned  many  things  which 
will  be  an  advantage  to  me  in  starting  again.' 

"  '  That  is  true,'  said  I ;  '  there  is  a  bright  side  to 
everything ;  and  if  we  will  look  for  it,  we  can  find 
it.  You  have  proved  one  thing, —  that  you  are 
neither  fickle  nor  easily  disheartened,  Charles ;  and 
in  some  way  or  other  this  reputation  will  certainly 
prove  an  advantage  to  you.  How  many  doctors 
have  put  out  signs,  and  taken  down,  and  moved 
away  from  this  square,  even  since  we  have  been 
here  ? ' 

"  '  Four,'  said  the  doctor,  laughing ;  '  but  I  really 
wish  I  could  have  one  good  case  before  I  follow 
suit.  Ah  !  here  is  Mr.  Gould.  I  am  happy  to  see 
you,  sir.  Sit  down.' 

" 4  The  doctor  was  just  wishing  a  patient,'  said  I, 
extending  my  hand  to  our  friend,  as  he  entered ; 


250        FIKST   TRIALS   OF   A    YOUNG   PHYSICIAN. 

'  but  I  am  happy  to  see  you  looking  so  well.  How 
are  you  all  at  home  ? ' 

"  '  Harris,  my  boy  is  ill,'  said  he,  with  a  troubled 
look. 

"  '  What 's  the  matter  ? ' 

'"I  do  not  know ;  but  I  do  not  like  his  looks. 
He  had  what  I  should  call  a  high  fever,  all  night.' 

"  '  It  is  rather  sickly  among  children,  just  now,' 
said  the  doctor,  whittling  away  at  a  pine  chip ;  '  but 
children  will  be  feverish,  often,  from  slight  causes. 
Perhaps  your  boy  has  taken  a  little  cold.  He  has 
been  vaccinated,  has  n't  he  ?  ' 

" '  No ;  his  mother  never  would  consent  to  it.' 

"  '  That 's  a  pity.     You  ought  to  have  it  done.' 

"  I  tried  to  converse  with  our  guest,  but  he  was 
evidently  absent-minded  and  uneasy,  and  made  but 
a  short  call. 

" '  I  wish  you  would  step  over  with  me,  Harris,' 
said  he,  'and  look  at  the  boy.  I  don't  like  this 
small-pox  business.' 

" '  0,  I  've  no  fear  of  small-pox,'  said  Charles, 
laughing,  and  putting  his  long-disused  medicine-case 
in  his  pocket ;  '  but  I  will  go  and  see  what  is  the 
matter  with  the  child,  if  you  wish  it.  —  Mary,'  said 
he,  as  he  closed  the  office-door,  giving  me  a  very  ex 
pressive  look,  '  if  any  one  calls,  say  I  shall  be  in 
soon.' 

"  The  doctor  found  Willy  Gould  already  very  ill. 


TIKST   TRIALS  OF   A   YOUNG   PHYSICIAN.       251 

Disease  had  fairly  taken  hold  of  him,  and  he  became 
rapidly  worse.  It  was  no  longer  possible  to  stem 
the  tide ;  —  all  the  physieian  could  hope  for  was  to 
lend  a  helping  hand  to  the  frail  vessel,  in  passing 
the  billows.  As  his  danger  became  more  and 
more  apparent,  his  parents  lost  their  self-control. 
Many  a  time,  even  in  the  passing  of  one  short  hour, 
the  mother  came,  with  quivering  lip,  grasping  the 
doctor's  arm,  whispering,  '  0,  save  him !  save  him ! 
Take  all  we  have  on  earth,  but  save  our  boy ! ' 

"  One  morning  I  went  over  with  Charles.  This 
was  his  first  case,  and  of  course  I  was  intensely 
interested  in  its  success.  We  heard  the  meanings 
of  the  child  as  soon  as  we  opened  the  outer  door. 
Stepping  into  the  little  nursery,  we  found  him  in 
his  crib,  looking  as  if  he  were  very  near  death.  His 
parents  were  hanging  over  him  in  agony.  I  felt 
much  for  them,  but  I  felt  also  for  one  dearer  to  me 
than  they.  The  doctor  was  almost  as  pale  as  the 
child.  He  had  scarcely  left  the  sick-room,  day  or 
night,  since  he  was  summoned  to  it.  He  was  in 
tensely  interested  in  saving  the  little  patient,  both 
for  his  friends'  sake  and  his  own. 

"There  were  many  things,  I  soon  perceived, 
which  tried  his  feelings  unnecessarily.  The  old 
nurse  not  unfrequently  looked  up  contemptuously  to 
his  young  face,  and  told  him,  in  a  tone  peculiarly 
her  own,  '  that  she  had  seen  death  before.' 


252       FIKST   TRIALS   OP   A    YODNQ    PHYSICIAN. 

" '  Harris,'  sometimes  said  the  father,  in  his  dis 
tress,  '  are  you  sure  this  powder  is  the  best  thing  ? 
You  know  you  are  young  yet.' 

"  '  That  is  a  very  powerful  dose,'  said  the  mother, 
at  length.  '  Now,  if  Dr.  Harris  has  no  objection,  I 
should  prefer  to  consult  with  Dr.  Smith,  before  giv 
ing  it.  He  is  an  older  man,  you  know,  and  has  had 
much  experience  with  children.' 

"  Dr.  Harris  was  perfectly  cordial  in  acceding  to 
this  plan,  and  Dr.  Smith  was  immediately  sent  for. 
His  head  was  gray  enough,  but  I  fancied  —  though 
may  be  it  was  all  a  fancy  —  that  he  looked  with  a  jeal 
ous  eye  upon  my  young  doctor,  and  that  he  was  not 
inclined  to  approve  of  his  course,  if  he  could  help  it. 
Indeed,  he  did  object  to  administering  the  powder. 
The  boy  lay  apparently  dying.  There  was  no  time 
to  be  lost.  It  was  a  very  exciting  moment. 

" '  Shall  I  give  it,  or  not  ? '  said  the  agitated 
mother,  hanging  over  her  idol,  as  if  she  feared  his 
last  breath  would  escape  before  they  answered  her. 

"  '  I  think  it  must  be  given,'  said  Charles,  firmly. 
'  I  must  administer  it,  if  I  retain  the  case ;  but  if 
you  wish,  Mrs.  Gould,  I  will  at  once  place  the  case 
in  Dr.  Smith's  hands.' 

"  Mrs.  Gould  held  a  hurried  consultation  with  her 
husband,  and  then  he  proposed  that  Dr.  Holmes,  an 
old  and  valued  family  physician,  should  be  sent  for, 
and  the  case  submitted  to  him.  This  was  agreed 


FIRST   TRIALS   OF   A   YOUNG   PHYSICIAN.       253 

upon,  and  Dr.  Holmes  was  soon  brought  to  what,  by 
this  time,  seemed  surely  the  chamber  of  death. 
When  he  entered  the  parents  had  turned,  weeping, 
to  the  window,  that  they  might  not  see  the  last 
struggle. 

"  '  The  child  is  not  dying  yet,'  said  Dr.  Holmes, 
in  his  rough,  kind  voice.  '  Mother,  what  you  cry 
ing  for  ?  I  don't  know  but  he  may  die,  but  I  hope 
not.  Wipe  up  !  we  shall  want  you  to  nurse  him  pretty 
soon,  I  dare  say ;  and  if  you  fret  it  will  hurt  him.' 

"  Dr.  Harris  looked  exceedingly  pleased.  '  I  told 
you,  all  the  time,  he  was  not  dying,'  said  he  to  its 
father. 

" '  Well,  I  know  it,  Harris ;  but  I  could  n't  believe 
you,'  said  Mr.  Gould,  laughing  and  crying  together. 

"  The  old  nurse  was  silent.  She  had  committed 
herself  to  the  opinion  that  the  child  must  soon  die, 
and  she  meant  to  wait  and  see  what  came  of  it. 

"A  statement  of  the  case  was  made  to  Dr. 
Holmes,  and  the  powder  submitted  to  his  judgment. 

"  '  Now,  Dr.  Harris,'  said  he,  in  his  same  rough 
way,  '  Dr.  Smith's  medicine  is  very  good ;  but  if  I 
had  charge  of  the  boy,  the  dose  I  should  give  him 
is  the  one  you  hold  in  your  hand.' 

"  So  it  was  given.  Willie  swallowed  with  diffi 
culty.  Charles  never  left  him;  — he  stood  with 
his  finger  on  the  nickering  pulse.  It  is  rising,  — 
rising.  The  child  had  merely  swooned.  He  soon 
22 


254       FIRST   TRIALS   OF   A    YOUNG   PHYSICIAN. 

came  out  of  the  fainting-fit.  '  Don't  crowd  about 
him,'  said  Charles ;  '  give  him  air.  There,  he  has 
opened  his  eyes.  Now  call  his  mother; — let  her 
see  him.' 

"  From  this  moment  the  parents  hoped.  Dr. 
Smith  and  Dr.  Holmes  went  away,  and  the  case 
was  left  quietly  in  Dr.  Harris'  hands.  He  re 
mained  day  and  night  in  that  nursery,  until  all  dan 
ger  was  over ;  then,  with  a  proud  and  happy  look, 
placed  the  little  white  sufferer  in  its  mother's  amis. 
'  All  he  needs  now,'  said  he,  '  is  good  nursing ;  and 
that  you  must  give  him.' 

"  '  I  '11  tell  you  what,'  said  Mr.  Gould  to  me,  one 
day,  when  I  called  there,  '  Mrs.  Harris,  your  hus 
band  is  a  first-rate  physician ;  and  if  he  does  not  get 
the  best  practice  in  this  place,  after  this,  it  won't  be 
my  fault.'  Mr.  Gould  was  a  leading  man — a 
man  of  great  influence  —  in  the  town,  and  he  made 
his  word  good. 

"  From  this  time  Dr.  Harris'  practice  steadily  in 
creased,  until,  at  length,  he  had  his  hands  full  of 
business.  True,  many  of  his  calls  brought  in  no 
pay  ;  but  he  did  not  despise  them  on  this  account. 
He  attended  to  all  he  could  get,  for  he  ralued  the 
practice.  A  few  paid,  and  a  little  money  came  in. 
This  was  all  given  into  my  keeping.  At  length  I 
began  to  mourn  that  I  had  to  pay  so  much  of  it  to 
Mrs.  Bailey  for  boarding.  '  It  would  go  so  far  in  a 


FIRST   TRIALS   OF   A   YOUNG   PHYSICIAN.       255 

little  house  of  our  own,'  thought  I ;  and  the  thought, 
once  admitted,  would  not  be  expelled.  My  mother 
had  a  neat  fit-out  for  me  whenever  I  should  need  it, 
and  I  knew  I  could  send  for  this  at  any  time ;  and 
the  more  I  thought  of  the  plan,  the  more  delightful 
and  feasible  it  seemed.  I  mentioned  it  to  Charles, 
and  he  fell  in  with  it  at  once.  Gentlemen  are 
always  ready  to  go  to  house-keeping.  They  like  to 
provide  for  their  families  in  their  own  homes.  So 
much  in  earnest  was  the  doctor  about  it  that  he 
made  me  go  out  with  him,  every  leisure  moment  he 
had,  house-hunting.  This  we  found  a  difficult  task. 
To  suit  our  means,  and  yet  obtain  a  central  position, 
seemed  impossible.  I  began  to  despair,  when,  one 
afternoon,  we  stumbled  upon  a  little  box  of  a  house, 
hidden  behind  some  fine  old  maple-trees.  It  looked 
very  well  externally ;  —  it  was  painted  white,  and 
had  green  blinds  at  its  few  windows,  and  a  varnished 
front-door.  There  was  a  little  yard  before  it,  and 
garden  in  the  rear,  and,  what  pleased  me  much,  a 
nice  barn.  I  was  so  delighted  with  it,  and  we  found 
the  rent  so  very  low,  that  the  doctor  hired  it,  and 
I  sent  to  my  mother  for  our  furniture.  We  found, 
however,  to  our  disturbance,  that  the  inside  of  the 
house  was  sadly  out  of  repair.  Our  landlord  re 
fused  to  put  one  dollar  into  repairs.  He  said  he 
could  not  afford  to,  if  he  rented  it  so  low.  Neither 
could  I  consent  to  put  my  new  furniture  into  it,  in 


256       FIRST   TRIALS   OF   A   YOUNG   PHYSICIAN. 

the  state  in  which  it  was ;  so  I  proposed  to  the  doc 
tor  that  we  should  paper  and  paint  it  ourselves.  I 
found  him  quite  ready  to  undertake  it,  and  we  drove 
out  of  town,  one  day,  and  bought  our  paint  in  the 
raw  material,  because  it  came  cheaper.  We  ground 
it  down,  and  mixed  it  ourselves,  and  we  painted  and 
papered  our  little  box  from  garret  to  cellar ;  and  we 
sung  over  our  work ;  and  when  all  was  done  it  was 
wonderful  to  see  how  nice  it  looked.  My  furniture 
was  pretty,  and  in  good  taste ;  and  everything  was 
so  neat  and  snug  that  I  think  we  looked  better  than 
many  of  our  richer  neighbors.  Here  we  settled 
down,  in  the  fall;  —  Dr.  Harris  and  his  wife, 
Eleanor  the  baby,  and  Ann,  the  fat  Dutch  girl  who 
took  care  of  her.  I  thought  I  had  all  I  wanted. 
Ann  and  I.  were  to  do  the  work  together.  This  I 
thought  I  should  find  an  easy  matter ;  but  I  soon 
learned  that  there  is  just  such  a  round  of  ceremony 
to  be  gone  through,  at  house-keeping,  if  there  are 
but  two  of  you ;  and,  further  than  that,  a  baby  will 
have  its  full  share  of  attention,  and  consumes  much 
of  one's  time.  I  found  myself,  therefore,  more 
closely  confined  at  home  than  was  good  either  for 
my  health  or  spirits ;  so  I  put  on  my  thinking-cap, 
one  day,  to  see  what  could  be  done  about  it.  It 
struck  me  that  if  we  could  take  a  couple  of  pleasant 
table-boarders,  it  would  pay  the  wages  of  a  good  strong 
servant,  who  could  do  all  the  work,  and  bring  us  in 


FIRST   TRIALS   OF   A   YOUNG   PHYSICIAN.       257 

a  little  over  every  week  besides,  if  I  managed  it 
well.  I  proposed  it  to  the  doctor ;  at  first  he  hesi 
tated.  He  was  enjoying  the  new  dignity  of  a 
householder,  and  it  was  not  agreeable  to  him  to 
think  of  keeping  boarders ;  but  after  a  time  his 
judgment  fell  in  with  mine  about  it,  and  two  pleas 
ant  young  gentlemen,  and  a  stout  serving-girl,  were 
added  to  our  establishment. 

"I  did  find  this  arrangement  gave  me  more 
liberty,  and  also  added  to  our  income  a  pretty  little 
sum  weekly.  Under  the  privacy  of  one's  own  roof, 
one  can  cut  and  contrive  and  economize,  and  make 
things  do  which  never  would  answer  at  boarding. 
I  soon  found  that  my  savings  were  just  as  good  as 
the  doctor's  earnings ;  and  that,  without  them,  it 
would  have  been  quite  impossible  for  him  to  have 
brought  the  two  ends  together  so  finely,  and  to  have 
had  a  little  penny  over  for  a  wet  day,  and  this,  too, 
in  the  first  year  of  housekeeping.  How  glad  I  was 
that  we  went  to  housekeeping ! 

"  Calls,  calls,  calls !  Dr.  Harris  was  in  great 
demand;  and,  at  length,  was  out  from  morning 
until  night,  and  used  to  come  in  looking  so  weary, 
that  it  troubled  me.  We  had  added  one  more  gen 
tleman  to  the  number  of  our  table  boarders,  —  and, 
indeed,  I  found  the  arrangement  a  very  profitable 
one,  —  but  still  I  was  not  satisfied.  One  November 
noon,  I  wandered  out  into  our  little  garden,  and 
22* 


258        FIRST   TRIALS   OF   A    YOUNG   PHYSICIAN'. 

opened  the  door  of  our  barn.  I  stood,  as  I  had  fre 
quently  done  before,  looking  in,  and  thinking,  until 
I  saw  a  pony  standing  before  me  in  the  stall,  and 
neighing  in  a  most  friendly  manner,  and  the  loft 
well  filled  with  hay,  and  a  sulky  standing  there, 
with  a  neat  harness.  I  then  closed  the  door  upon 
these  imaginary  treasures,  and,  sitting  down  on  a 
stone  in  the  sunshine,  I  again  put  on  my  thinking- 
cap.  What  could  be  done  to  help  the  doctor  ?  He 
was  wearing  himself  out.  Now  I  remembered 
that,  when  purchasing  my  wedding  finery,  I  had 
saved  a  little  portion  of  my  dowry,  and  tucked  it 
away  in  the  corner  of  an  old  red  pocket-book. 
There  is  no  knowing,  thought  I,  what  may  happen, 
and  I  can  do  without  more  ribbon.  It  occurred  to 
me  that  this  sum  would  just  about  purchase  a 
second-hand  sulky,  which  I  had  seen  in  the  village, 
chalked  '  for  sale,'  ever  since  Dr.  Simmons'  abrupt 
departure.  I  knew,  also,  that  the  doctor  had  a 
small  sum  put  away ;  and  this,  I  concluded,  would 
purchase  a  cheap  pony  and  harness.  The  plan 
pleased  me  so  much,  I  became  very  impatient  for 
the  doctor's  return,  that  I  might  tell  him  of  it ;  but 
the  short  November  afternoon  was  spent,  and  he  did 
not  come,  and  at  length  I  went  down  into  the 
kitchen,  to  talk  it  over  with  Nannie.  She  was  as 
much  pleased  with  the  prospect  as  I  was.  '  And 
now  I  will  tell  you  what  it  is,  Mrs.  Harris,'  said 


FIRST   TKIALS   OF   A   YOUNG   PHYSICIAN.       259 

She ;  « if  you  do  get  a  pony,  let  us  begin  with  him 
to  make  him  eat  everything,  and  then  we  can  give 
him  half  his  living  from  the  house.'  This  sugges 
tion  of  Nannie's  I  afterwards  found  very  valuable. 

"  Our  gentlemen  boarders  had  been  gone  from  tea 
some  time,  and  Eleanor  was  sound  asleep,  before 
the  doctor  came  home  that  night.  As  soon  as  I 
heard  him  open  the  front  door,  I  ran  to  meet  him. 
'  0  Charles,'  said  I,  « I  have  such  a  grand  plan  to 
tell  you  !  Come  down  to  your  supper  as  quick  as 
you  can,  and  hear  it.' 

"  '  What  a  lady  you  are  for  plans ! '  said  he,  laugh 
ing  ;  '  do  you  ever  let  a  day  go  by  without  making 
them  ? ' 

"  '  This  is  the  best  you  ever  heard,'  persisted  I, 
and  I  soon  made  it  known  to  him.  He  approved  it 
highly,  and  wondered  he  had  not  thought  of  it  be 
fore  ;  and  the  very  next  day  he  set  about  making 
his  purchases.  Before  the  week  was  out,  I  again 
opened  our  little  stable-door,  and  there  stood  the  sulky 
and  the  harness,  and  there,  too,  was  the  loft  filled 
with  hay ;  and,  more  than  all  that,  Letty,  the  new 
pony,  stood  pawing  in  the  stall  with  her  white  feet, 
and  these  were  not  imaginary  treasures.  How  rich 
we  felt !  There  was  but  one  drawback  to  my  pleas 
ure  ;  and  that  was,  that  the  sulky  was  not  a  buggy. 
There  was  no  way  for  me  to  ride  with  Dr.  Harris, 
unless  I  rode  as  Eleanor  did,  on  his  knee,  and  this 


260        FIRST   TRIALS    OF   A    YOUNG   PHYSICIAN. 

could  only  be  done  after  dark.  To  compensate  for 
this,  he  borrowed  Mrs.  Bailey's  old  side-saddle,  and 
spent  much  time  re-fitting  it  for  me  and  Nannie. 
I  learned  to  saddle  the  pony,  and  many  a  splendid 
ride  did  Letty  give  me  through  those  grand  old 
forests.  We  became  great  friends;  and,  when  it 
chanced  that  the  doctor  did  not  get  home  in  season 
to  feed  her,  Nannie  and  I  used  to  give  her  her 
supper,  and  she  would  rub  her  head  on  our  shoul 
ders,  and  do  everything  but  speak  to  us.  Many 
horses  have  we  owned  since  Letty's  day ;  I  became 
famous  for  those  I  used  under  the  saddle,  and  our 
carriage-horses  were  pronounced  the  finest  in  the 
state ;  but,  after  all,  never  have  we  had  any  which 
I  loved  as  I  did  little  Letty,  with  her  white  feet. 
We  purchased  her  in  our  poverty,  and  she  did  her 
part  well  towards  aiding  us  in  our  success.  Peace 
to  her  memory !  She  served  her  generation  faith 
fully,  and  that  is  more  than  many  of  us  do. 

"  It  strikes  me,  in  reading  over  this,  that  some 
thing  new  has  come  in  fashion  for  young  wives  at 
the  present  day  ;  that  now  they  think  a  man  must 
not  marry  unless  he  is  all  ready  to  support  his  wife, 
and  support  her,  too,  in  a  suitable  style ;  and,  if  he 
cannot  furnish  a  house  according  to  her  ideas,  they 
must  board.  I  wonder  what  we  should  have  done, 
had  I  insisted  upon  boarding  at  the  Sun  Tavern, 
&c.  ?  Charles  could  not  take  me  to  a  fine  house 


FIRST   TRIALS   OF   A   YOUNG   PHYSICIAN.       261 

when  first  we  went  West.  We  might  have  gone 
there,  and  had  Captain  Dodge's  best  parlor  and 
chamber;  and,  likely  enough,  had  he  still  been 
keeping  the  Sun  Tavern,  we  might  have  been  there 
to  this  day,  instead  of  being  in  this  fine  house  of  our 
own.  No  —  look  at  it  from  what  point  you  will, 
boarding  is  not  the  right  way  for  young  people  to 
begin  living  who  have  their  own  fortune  to  make ; 
they  cannot,  in  this,  economize  rightly.  They  must 
be  in  a  home  of  their  own,  be  it  ever  so  small,  and 
regulate  its  policy  just  according  to  their  means, 
and  be  content  to  do  so. 

"  My  friend,  if  you  are  thinking  of  marrying  a 
poor  physician,  let  me  give  you  one  word  of  advice  : 
Make  common  cause  with  the  doctor,  to  start  with. 
Do  not  think  it  to  be  his  first  business  to  support 
you,  and,  above  all,  to  support  you  in  a  certain  style, 
and  provide  you  with  a  New  York  hat  twice  a 
season.  If  the  doctor  hires  you  a  small  house,  and 
it  needs  painting  sadly,  and  your  landlord  will  not' 
do  a  thing  to  it,  do  not  shrink  from  painting  your 
own  fingers,  if  by  so  doing  you  can  make  it  re 
spectable. 

"Do  not  be  ashamed  to  have  a  pleasant  table 
boarder,  if  you  find,  by  experience,  that  this  will  aid 
your  husband  in  paying  his  butcher's  bills.  [Put  in 
your  oar,  and  share  the  sweat  of  the  brow  with  which 


262        FIRST   TRIALS   OF   A   YOUNG   PHYSICIAN 

you  must  both  start  up  the  stream.  You  will  richly 
enjoy  the  rest,  when  you  reach  the  harbor. 

"  I  am  grateful  that  these  genteel  notions  about 
the  proper  position  of  the  wife  were  not  discovered 
when  Dr.  Harris  first  swung  out  his  pretty  blue  and 
gold  sign  in  the  Western  sunshine ;  for,  had  I  fallen 
a  victim  to  them,  then  I  think  Eleanor  never  would 
have  had  what  will  fall  to  her  to-morrow,  on  her 
eighteenth  birthday. 

"  But  I  do  not  know  that  I  ought  to  tell  of  this. 
Eleanor  is  pretty,  and  an  heiress,  and  some  young 
Dr.  Harris  will  be  for  looking  her  up ;  and,  if  he 
once  sees  her,  he  will  be  more  captivated  with  her 
sunny  smiles  and  golden  curls  even  than  with  her 
golden  dovpr.  Then,  if  Eleanor  should  like  him, 
the  gold  might  be  a  disadvantage  ;  for,  after  all,  it 
is  the  making  of  the  young  physician  to  force  his 
own  way,  patiently  and  perseveringly,  through  the 
first  trials  of  his  profession." 


UCLA-Young  Research   Library 

PS3100   T776t 


L  009  609  855  3 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    001219584    8 


PS 
2^57 


